


An Insuperable Impediment

by Stidean



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Deceased Mycroft Holmes, Deceased Siger Holmes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade - Freeform, John!Priest, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 66,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stidean/pseuds/Stidean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has never been loved. Orphaned a few months after his birth, he falls into the hands of relatives that see him as no more than a burden. After spending his educative years at Lowood Institution, where he fell in love and learned about grief, he waits for his initiation into the Seminary, and while he waits, he finds a position as a tutor for a young ward at Bakersfield Hall, where he meets Sherlock Holmes, and nothing is ever the same.<br/>It's been over 15 years since Sherlock Holmes was betrayed by his father and his brother Mycroft, condemning him to a lifetime of misery for which he has never forgiven them. Then, on a chanced visit to his estate, he collides with John Watson, his ward's tutor, and Bakersfield Hall no longer feels like a prison.<br/>A retelling of Jane Eyre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I have to explain a few things about this story before anyone takes on the dubious task of reading it. This is a BBCSherlock/Jane Eyre crossover. I can’t remember now when my mind made the connection between the two but maybe the further I go into the story the more it will make sense. I just felt the characters paralleled in many ways.  
> As for my feeble attempts to pay homage to Charlotte Brontë (sounds better than “stealing”, of the smash-and-grab variety). I can only hope it’ll live up to your standards since it would never live up to hers. Reading the original text is not at all necessary but, being that the book is, in my honest opinion, a Magnum Opus, I recommend you read it just for pleasure.
> 
> Now, John will be 18 when he meets Sherlock but Sherlock will be 35. It made more sense than changing the ages of the protagonists in the original novel. I have to warn you though. Sherlock will not enter into the story for a while (Chapter 7) but when he does he will shake everything up just as the real Mr. Rochester did for Jane. Also, this story will not feature ANY coming out struggles or “Secret Homosexuality” themes to it. Their relationship will be explained further ahead in an interesting way I’ve never seen employed before but is actually based on reality and has only been stretched to be AUish in that it is no longer practiced in the 1800s’, nor was it ever practiced (as far as I know) in Britain but rather France, and that’s all the hints I’m going to give you guys : ) . Also, and this comment will make much more sense further ahead, A.C. Doyle was a brilliantly engaging writer but was shit for keeping people’s backgrounds and even names straight but I won’t say more until we get further ahead so as not to give anything away.
> 
> Any location written ‘----shire’ is deliberately written that way because Charlotte Brontë never put down any locations so neither shall I. I wrote the first chapter in Present tense for a reason but I am now even more convinced not to continue doing so for further chapters. It’s SO difficult to keep up. Oh, and one last thing. There are going to be LOTS of Johns in this story but it’ll be easy to keep up with who is who. You’ll see.  
> Enjoy!

I would like to ask you to observe me, keeping a sharp eye to my faults, looking at them dispassionately and to view me without bias.

I am 10 years of age, born on July 7th 1829\. I have blond hair, average facial features, strong chin, boring mouth, deep blue eyes that possess a colour that would not be amiss if you were to stare into deep ocean waters (or so I’ve been told by Bessie, the maid, for I have never seen the ocean, although, to be fair, neither has she I think). I am not too intelligent, nor bright, nor witty, nor handsome. I am slim from lack of exercise (having no other children about to play with). I am passionate, though that has been affirmed by other quarters, who have thrown that character trait at me time and time again as if it were a fault, which it might very well be, if it is to inhabit the character of a 10 year old child.

I am John Watson and I live in Gateshead Hall, ----shire. This is not my home, to be sure. It is the home of my aunt, Mrs. Sarah Reed, in whose hands I was placed, much like the whole of the Reed estate, at the death of my uncle, the Late Mr. Reed. I was told he entrusted me to her safekeeping on his deathbed, a task she has begrudgingly undertaken.

You’ll be surprised to hear, following my former statement of having no other children to play with, that the Reeds have three offspring:

John, 16, is a desolate soul who takes no greater pleasure than when causing someone, or something, pain, be it physical or emotional. He is my main tormentor and the reason I am never called by my true given name for there can’t be two Johns within one household. Though it would be easy to blame him for the mistreatment I suffer at the hands of my elders, their ill opinion of me brought about by me being blamed for all things wicked that have happened in Gateshead Hall, happenings that were mostly perpetrated by him. Whether it be hand prints on the furniture, dropped objects made to break, stolen items, and at one point, for a while, the death of small critters around the estate: Chickens, small wild birds and even pets belonging to our neighbouring tenants. I say it would be easy to blame all my harsh treatment brought about by the ill opinion these actions laid upon me if I were the perpetrator, but I am not surrounded by the simple minded and my guilt could have easily been explained away by simple investigation if there was such desire in my benefactress to carry out any such investigation. For I can assure you I was quite blameless on almost all accounts except a few broken items which I did at one point or another, through a child’s ill care, break, and was made to feel as to have broken an oath made with heaven’s seat. I have never been told, not once, what my crime is and was made to suppose my very birth had been the crime I am to pay for.

Eliza, 10, is a plain, spiteful and self-interested girl. Calculating, barren of all sympathy towards others, she would become the perfect hermit; an unfeeling article who does not smile unless it is inspired by her own conniving nature. Avaricious to the last, she sees the world, the things in it and the people inhabiting it, by the degree of comfort and security they can provide her. I am not suggesting that she is incapable of feeling, for she does sometimes falter, but she has made it a mission from a young age to rein in any emotion other than satisfaction, I suppose, because of the weakness she sees in emotion and attachment.

Georgiana, 13, is a lazy, made much of, spoiled kind of girl and the perfect flirt; she would make anyone who is stupid the perfect wife. From early age she aspired to get my attention and devotion, not because she wanted it, for she does not see me in any way her equal or a worthy match of course, but because she felt she deserves devotion, from all boys, and I assume, this will eventually include all men.

Though I give an account of these children in very harsh tones, I would give anything to be allowed to socialize with them at my leisure, for childhood is a very lonely time in a person’s life. And yet I am not allowed to do so, for I have an “ardent and passionate soul and stance; a wicked disposition, which might infect the other children and must not be allowed to be transmitted to them.”  Mrs. Reed demands I shed my intractable character before I am allowed to play with her own children. On most days that is more than acceptable but a great house becomes a coffin after a while when the only kind voice you ever expect to hear is your own, which unfortunately led me to sometimes desire my cousins’ company, dull, joyless and sometimes dangerous as that desire might be . For my physical comfort I have my own closet, with a small bed which I have outgrown but dare not complain about and I have access to the nursery when the other children do not use it. My standing in the house is comparable to that of a child to one of the household staff and I was made to feel it keenly, that my presence there was only at the mercy of my aunt and I was made to believe that that fact should compel me to bear any treatment by her hands and the hands of her vile brood.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

We gave up on taking a walk on the grounds today, the rain chasing us inside. I followed them all the way to the house for I am to walk at least 10 feet behind them. We all planned to seek our own diversions as soon as we passed the doors, the deafening noise of the rain drops hitting the many glass surfaces facing out, echoing the chatter of our teeth. Georgiana will most likely take herself to her vanity and primp till she becomes too tired and frustrated by trying to eke out whatever beauty she can from herself that isn’t already there. Eliza will go to her account books and check, once again, what the total of her earnings are for that week. She takes a pride in earning from the tenants that live closest to Gateshead Hall small sums by selling them the eggs their own chickens have laid but which she has collected. An activity that has been encouraged by my aunt, in both Eliza and her imposed upon tenants. Young master Reed… his choice of activity I could never guess. When causing misery is your favourite pastime, there are infinite avenues for delight and you are never to be bored if you have enough imagination. As to John’s imagination, the aforementioned subject is the only one in which he shows any promise. In all others he is dull.

I recognize the mood in which he is in and thought better than to remain within his sight. I take myself to Uncle Reed’s library and grab a copy of ‘Ornithology in the West Indies’, looking forward to be delighted rather more by image than by information. I sit myself down in the larger of the two windows found in that room, which faces the direction of the rain, the wind carrying it on its back to dash it against the glass, the constant pounding serving as a reminder to my earlier disappointment. I enjoy walking, even more so in the company of my cousins because, and I must stress this again, as loathsome as they are in my eyes, my loneliness has made me seek their company in spite of my revulsion and when we walk together it makes it easier for me to imagine I am one of the party. With rich drapery on my right protecting me from all the world that inhabits Gateshead Hall and glass on my left protecting me but not helping me forget of the rain, I sit down to affix my mind on bright colours and the imagined sound of birds I would never see.

And yet I cannot. My mind is elsewhere.

Once you learn to live with fear you can’t shake it off for it doesn’t leave you, but it also stops interfering with your activities, mainly because all you do or plan to do is shaped around that fear; like a piece of pottery you intend to mould around something else you mean to encase within. So when Young Master Reed made his way into the library with his sisters, I was only surprised he had managed to persuade them to leave their preferred activities to join his, rather than at the fact that I was to be his chosen victim.

His mind is slow so he does not think to check for me in the window seat even though he has found me sitting here often enough. It takes him several minutes before he puts the numbers together and so decides to approach slowly, no doubt to linger my suspense and discomfort. At last he draws the heavy silk and looks down at me:

“THIEF!” he yells, snatching the book from my hands.

“What have I stolen?” I retort in my meekest voice, for I ascertain it to be the best way to placate him.

“You have stolen a book which belongs to me, Jonah.” For, I may remind you, I am never to be called John by the inhabitants of Gateshead Hall.

“It belongs to Uncle Reed.”

“Not anymore, it does not!”

“How can you speak so coolly of your dear father’s death?” I answered, before I spared a moment’s thought to what was the content of my statement.

“Insolent child!” and here he strikes me with a blow to the temple so strong, the book’s sharp edges draw blood. He smiles triumphantly in an assured manner, convinced my spirit to be too docile to strike back. Yesterday he would have been right but it seems eight years, three months, 20 days and three (for he started to torment me at the age of no more than two) were enough to break into the place true rage resides in me and indeed resides in all of us, no matter how submissive we might be in our everyday bearing. Years of neglect had done their work. Take care to teach your own children from this tale, if you cannot bring them to be caring and empathize with their peers, if you cannot stop them from taking delight in torment and torture, that the line must never be crossed by an oppressor, if he’s smart enough to identify it. The line on which, when crossed, we all snap the lock and release blind fury that can tear away flesh with teeth and nails, the fury which has no surface that touches mercy.

I take him by surprise and jump on his chest, both my fists pounding at him all over. I scream and shout calling him a tyrant and comparing him to Caligula, about whom I read and was much scandalized by his inhumanity. His sisters, who were quietly smiling until he struck me, hurry away to fetch Bessie and Mrs. Abbott as soon as I make my attack, while Aunt Reed is called in from the drawing room only at Young Master Reed’s scream of pain and not my own after being struck.

In my rage I do not pay heed to much that is being said other than what I can deduce is Aunt Reed’s demand that I be put in the dreaded Red Room. I only calm my anger to replace it with horror when I am placed inside and told I’ll be restrained to the chair if I don’t stop trying to get away from my minders’ grasp. Only Bessie shows me any sympathy at my treatment but not for long since she partakes in the opinion of the others that I am of too violent a disposition and of a passionate nature that needs to be tempered and checked. They walk briskly out and as soon as the door is locked behind them I fling myself at the door, poor, terrified creature that I am. I entreat them to show mercy to me as they have never done so before. I remind them of my uncle. I beg. I weep. I grow weaker and weaker in my supplications, knowing that if there is any chance of someone in the house showing me reprieve from the ill treatment I have unjustly, and without a reasonable explanation, been shown, it would have been done years ago by now. I calm and the room grows quiet, the light from the outside fading fast and, no doubt, my fear making the light retreat faster to leave me in darkness. This is the room no one uses. This is where Uncle Reed died and the oath was taken.

The room itself has not one feature in it to cause dread. Not one thing to make it distinguishable from any other room in other house as grand as Gateshead Hall, and yet…

I sit on the bed, my tiny legs dangling without reaching half way to the ground. I look about me slowly, taking in the dimensions of the room again and again, fearing that if I stop checking, the room will get smaller without me noticing. At once a thought comes to my mind, both just and horrifying. Oaths taken in dire conditions, such as a deathbed, could bring celestial wrath on whoever breaks it. What if Uncle Reed’s soul should come back to wreak vengeance? What if he were to tear the house apart in his rage, a fury of a spirit, an anger that cannot be contained? As just and comforting as I may find that thought, not in the destruction but of my wrongs triggering such a violent response from the heavens, I am much more horrified by the prospect of being confronted, or even commiserated with and comforted by such an angry apparition.

Light dances, no doubt the moon throwing shadows, but to my eyes they are Uncle Reed come to avenge me. I run into the door insensible and knock myself out. All is Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

I regained consciousness, at what I assumed had been, hours later. It was the middle of the night and I was immediately startled by the presence of a man, of whose face I had a vague recollection. Jeremiah Hardwood, the Apothecary. He must have been called to tend to me since a doctor would have been an extravagance for Jonah Watson. 'No better than a servant, as always.' I thought bitterly. The Doctor was only called when one of the family members was in need of medical help.

He looked at me worried, even more than he did before when I was just waking up. I guess it was a reaction to the appearance of apprehension and some dread showing on my countenance brought on by the presence of a stranger at this late hour. He seemed to be sorry to have caused me further stress than the one I was already in because of my injuries - injuries which have made it necessary for him to be called for at this hour.

"Are you quite alright John?" he uttered tentatively.

"Jonah." I corrected him out of reflex and fear; reminded of the last time I had used my name to identify myself to strangers.

"Are you alright Jonah?" he repeated, obviously aware of the domestic situation that prompted me to correct him.

"I have a slight headache and a stinging to my temple." Images flashing back of the occurrences that led for this man to be in "my" room, for I was still in the dreaded Red Room, the servants not bothering to carry my frail body to my own closet or even removing the clothes I was wearing, in order to make me more comfortable as I slept. Or perhaps shame made my aunt rethink about me being seen by outsiders in my little closet and disproportionately sized crib.

Mr. Hardwood was a man in his early 30s, dressed in an impeccable, and yet austere, way for a simple country apothecary. He leaned in and with gentle hands traced his thumb on the edge of the bandage I had just realized was there. A sedative must have been used but not the kind to numb the pain I was suffering, just make my mind a bit addled and messing my wits a tad. This simple show of kindness aroused within me something I couldn’t describe at that time, being too young to understand such matters, and so I excused my shortness of breath to being, until now, unaccustomed to any kind of physical affection.

"You have suffered a small cut to your left temple which may have bled more than was expected, as head injuries always do, and must have startled you and your guardian quite a bit." I didn't dare correct him and shame my aunt by the revelation of how little care resided within her for my well being.

"You'll be right as rain as soon as the cold compress, dabbed in medicinal salve, does its work on the wound and since there was no need for sutures, there won't be any trace of your ordeal except what your sharp memory will make linger in your mind. As for the shock to your head, that will pass on naturally in a manner of hours along with the lightheadedness and nausea." The good man made no allusions or even hinted at what were his speculative guesses regarding what brought about my injuries. It didn't seem to originate from lack of sympathy, but rather forced restrain that must have come from realizing that his deductions hit close to the truth, and having the good sense and manners not to accuse my aunt about her responsibility regarding my present state.

I suddenly became very aware that I was being examined by a man of advanced studies, which brought about a sense of admiration and respect. There was also a dull, and shaming, sense of resentment and jealousy at his professional skills which I will never have the opportunity to attain, unless by some miracle my aunt reverses her ill opinion of me and decides to invest in my education as she did for Young Master Reed.

After Mr. Hardwood packed up his little black leather carry bag, filled with his wares, Bessie came to spend some time with me and check if there was anything I needed besides the food which she had brought with her. It was only when I was made aware of how long it had been since I last ate that I realized how much I hungered. The buttery toast and sweet tea, made with rather more sugar than was proper, to perk my mood a little, I happily ate. Bessie I must here, in writing, describe in a concise way. She was rather young, her age not exceeding 21. The only person in Gateshead to have shown me any kindness, in her limited capacity, and the only one to have had a kind word to offer me, though not often, and never when it was most needed.

After a while spent in silence, Bessie declared it was time to get some sleep but she did not leave right away and waited for me to get beneath the covers, still in my day clothes. I pulled the covers, still dreading to sleep in the confines of the room which had been the cause of further injuries to the ones inflicted by John when he bashed my temple with the book he had snatched from my hands. Bessie must have understood for she did what she always did for the other children when they couldn't sleep. She sang. She soothed my mind and put me adrift to be pulled by the soporific strands of the lullaby that put me further and further to sleep, my mind forgetting the horrors I thought were contained by the four walls surrounding me.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

I was to be confined till further notice. Young Master Reed was back in school but I was still happy to be away from Georgiana and Eliza, their company no longer appealing in the least, resentment having snatched what little sympathy I could muster to dull my aversion to their personalities. I spent my days within the Red Room, no longer afraid of my stay within it, for comfort had assuaged my trepidation, and lighted candles revealed the darker corners of the room, leaving no mystery within it.

November passed by quickly and so did Christmas, of which I was not made a part of, hearing the gaiety down below, the festive atmosphere only registering through sound. Pangs of anger started to make a dwelling in my insides every time I heard the swell of merriment coming from the great chambers of Gateshead Hall. Anger turned into resentment, of which I had plenty to spare. Christmas was never made a very happy time for me if you compare it to someone else's, who might find himself or herself within my situation but under a more benevolent caretaker. I was ignorant of how happy I could be and so Christmas was, till now, a very happy time for me. Not anymore it would seem. I received nothing out of the ordinary for my repast, was entertained by nothing and no one and spent all my time with Bessie, for Mrs. Abbott never tried to be genial to me- from the very start she regarded me as my aunt did. I suppose it was her servant's loyalty and I could not feel resentment towards her for that. If her Mistress was a better and loving woman so would she have been in her dealings with me.  
Bessie tried to be as kind to me as her position in the house allowed her. Between upbraiding me for "my passion" as she echoed her Mistress, and letting kindness slip from her in unguarded moments, I was much more felicitous than I would have been, had she not been the one assigned to be my minder till I stepped into the next phase in my life, a phase which was to follow as soon as the Christmas festivities ended.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

On the second week of January, I was suddenly summoned by my aunt just after breakfast. Bessie hurried me and had a grave look, which betrayed some of her concern and revealed she knew more about the reason that spurred the summons than she was willing to reveal.  
When I stepped into the drawing room of Gateshead Hall, my eye was immediately drawn to a figure whose bearing resembled that of a black marble obelisk. He was a man of average height and a countenance that could not be of a man older than 40. I could immediately see he was a priest for I recognized his black coat and white necktie. Nothing was said for a long time, the priest surveying me as my aunt sat comfortably sprawled in her chair by the fire, a satisfied grin on her face.

"This is the child?"

"Indeed sir. This is John." I was startled by this. She had almost never used my given name before, certainly never in front of company. It did not please me, but worried me. Something was about to change.  
More silence.

"John. Do you know what Hell is?" he did not wait for my answer. "It is a lake of fire which houses all the most frightful horrors, the most exquisite ineluctable torments, pain that is unimaginable by human standards. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"And what must you do to avoid falling into such an abyss?"

"I must remain healthy and not die sir." His countenance was unchanged but I could perceive a certain amount of anger, no doubt stemming from being given the wrong answer.

"And are you to be immortal? Are you to transcend human nature? Will you be a second Jesus?” he turned to my aunt. “Mrs. Reed. Does this child always speak so blasphemously?"

"Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, Mr. Brocklehurst, he is, and a liar besides." I was cut to the bone. It was not her words, for she has never failed to put me down or lie about my character in front of others, but that she had done so in front of strangers was what shook me and raised my ire.

"I am not a liar sir."

"You will have to acquire better manners if you are to attend our institution young man." This worried me. Not so much leaving Gateshead Hall, for it has become an unbearable and barren sepulcher for all its grandeur. I am to go to an institution. The word frightened me and conjured up images of an asylum and the harsh mistreatment you might find within the confines of one such place; mistreatment, which could be further prompted by the bad opinion that was being given by my benefactress to Mr. Brocklehurst. "That sort of insolence will not be tolerated and there will be no kind relative to take pity on you when castigating is to be employed to rectify any digression in your behaviour."  
I supposed he had intended to fill me with dread, and indeed there was some, to be sure, but he clearly did not have any grasp on the situation as it truly was. My aunt was not a poor exasperated and imposed upon relative who had unfortunately been lumbered with an unruly child she has tried time and time again to temper and moderate with the use of kindness and forgiveness. Consideration had never been shown to me, nor kindness or love or even pity. My parents were not long lived after my birth. Certainly not long enough to have shown me those qualities in my infancy. And poor Uncle Reed did not outlive my arrival for very long either. All I had was Her and God. I have been made hard and yet pliant. I have been made stony and ferocious; a bound and fettered lion. I will outlive her and her ilk. I will make myself better in spite of my mistreatment. Bring your punishment Mr. Brocklehurst, and your Abyss. I shall face them all and return. I have been made strong enough.

“Deceit will not be permissible or tolerated. Deceit is the worst of all sins and all who partake in that sin will have their place within the lake of fire. Do you say your prayers night and morning?” continued my interrogator.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you read your Bible?”

“Sometimes.”

“With pleasure? Are you fond of it?”

“I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah.”

“As I intimated in my letter two weeks ago, I am expressly sending him to Lowood because I wish him to be kept under a strict eye.” My aunt interposed, perhaps inclined to stem the tide of me revealing that I am not a blasphemous child and found comfort in faith and God, as opposed to the image of my character she was trying to set, quite unjustly, in Mr. Brocklehurst’s mind. “Discipline must never be allowed to lax when dealing with him and to guard against his worst fault: His deceitful nature. Will he be humbled?”

“Most assuredly! Humility is a Christian grace and I have taken it upon myself to instill it in the students to the utmost" ('Students!' thought I. 'It is not an Asylum! I am to be sent to school!') "Only a few days ago I had pleasing proof to the merit of my efforts and methods. When my second son, Augustus, visited Lowood only last week he came back and told me: ‘Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the boys at Lowood look, with their hair combed so strictly and their long somber coats—they are almost like poor people’s children! Like little priests! And,’ said he, ‘they looked at mama’s dress, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.’” Students! It is not an Asylum! I am to be sent to school!

“This is very pleasing to my ears. The system you have built so righteously, seems to me the best for John’s temper and haughty bearing. Consistency, I find to be the most important piece to such a system.”

“Consistency, Madam, is in my opinion the First of Christian duties: plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits; such is the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.”

“I will send him then, forthwith, Mr. Brocklehurst, for I assure you, I am quite anxious to be relieved of the burden he has become to me. However, I must insist that he spends all his vacation time within Lowood.”

“As you wish, Madam. I shall send word to Mr. Stamford of his receiving a new student so all formalities are taken care of and warn him of all that you have kindly informed us." 'So I am to be unjustly mistreated in this new life as well.' thought I "And now I must bid you Goodbye for I am to stay with the Archdeacon till I return to Brocklehurst Hall.”

“Send my regards to Mrs. Brocklehurst and Miss Brocklehurst, to Augustus, Theodore and Master Broughton Brocklehurst.”

“I will Madam, very happily. Little boy, here is a book entitled the ‘Child’s Guide,’ read it with prayer, especially that part containing ‘An account of the awfully sudden death of Martin G -, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.’’

With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

I stood there for several minutes, my aunt returning her focus to her sewing, expecting me, no doubt, to make myself scarce. As I had nothing more to lose at this point, I decided to lash out, make the opinion I had of her and hers, plain as it is in my mind.

“Go out of the room and return to the nursery. You are not to be confined to the Red Room, but to the nursery instead, till you leave for Lowood.” She said without taking her eyes off her work.

“It is not I who is deceitful. If I were, I would say that I love you. If I were, I would say that I love my cousins. It is not I who lies. If you are seeking a liar within Gateshead Hall, look no further than your own dear children Georgiana and John. Look within yourself and you will find the fountain that feeds their rivers of deceit. You may give this pamphlet to them to study. I am not a liar.”

“John, children must be corrected of their faults.”

“Deceit is not my fault!”

“No John. But you are passionate, that you cannot deny without being deceitful. How dare you affirm these statements?”

“How dare I do so?! Very easily, I can assure you! You think I am without a heart like you? You think I can live without kindness or compassion shown to me? Nurtured on no love? I shall remember it always. All the ways I was wronged by you for no other reason than my existence. I shall tell my story to others and never come back for as long as my will is my own. I shall see you as a paragon for all that I shouldn’t be and should never aspire to be. ‘Have mercy! Have mercy Aunt Reed!’ I cried, after your wicked child struck me, and you further punished me for having the audacity to strike back at him after years of torment. I should have cried for God to have mercy on your black soul for there is no mercy left in me to offer you. Send me to Lowood in a hurry Aunt Reed for you have made my existence unbearable to the utmost. I only have one kind thing to say to you before I part companies with you, for what remains to be either my existence or yours. I should thank you for at least giving me back my name, a name that you stole from me, before I leave this hateful place for my new life.”

I felt a freedom I was not accustomed to as I said all that lay heavily within me. It was strange and unfamiliar. My aunt left me, and the room, behind, in victory. But a child can never vent such emotion without feeling a pang of remorse, no matter how deserving the elder, that has been made the receiver of such a violent outburst, may be. I could not bring myself to seek out my aunt though. I could not go to her side as I had done so many times before, in the hopes of changing her mind about me and my character. She would have disdained me even further were I to go back on my words. I have burned that bridge and all was desolate on the other side.

I ran out. I ran as fast as I could, wanting to experience a freedom of the body as well as the mind. I ran insensible and without direction, all the time thinking ‘What shall I do?’ till some 20 minutes later I was called in by Bessie to have my lunch.

“You naughty child! Why won’t you answer when called?”

“Bessie. I am to leave Gateshead Hall within a day or two. Have you no kindness within you to make the time I have remaining, spent at your side, a little sweeter?”

“And will you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?”

“Will you find my departure a sorrowful event? Will Bessie cry for me at the time of leaving? What does Bessie care for me? You are always scolding me.”

“Because you are such a strange and fidgety creature. Almost like a changeling. You should be bolder.”

“And receive more knocks for my efforts?”

“Well, you are rather put upon and even my dear mother, as an aside, stated in front of me she would not like any of her children to fall into your situation.”

“Bessie. You must promise not to scold me anymore till I am out of this place.”

“I will as long as you behave as a young Gentleman ought to. And don’t be startled when I speak too sharply. It’s so provoking.”

“I shall never be afraid of you again Bessie, and besides. I shall soon have new people to dread.”

"If you dread them they’ll dislike you."

"As you do, Bessie?"

"I don’t dislike you, young sir. I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others."

"You don’t show it."

"You little sharp thing! You’ve got quite a new way of talking. What makes you so venturesome and hardy?"

"Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides..." I was going to say something about what had passed between me and Aunt Reed, but on second thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on that subject.

"And so you’re glad to leave me?"

"Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry."

"Just now! And rather! How coolly my young Master speaks! I dare say now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me: you’d say you’d RATHER not."

"I’ll kiss you and gladly. Bend your head down."

Bessie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony and in the evening Bessie told me some of her most enchanting stories and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days after meeting Mr. Brocklehurst I left Gateshead Hall for my new home. There was no ceremony to my departure. Bessie walked by candlelight to my closet and found me already dressed, washed and ready to leave. She was to escort me to the gates, to wait with me for a coach, which was to pass by at 6 a.m. and was to take me to Lowood. I was offered breakfast just before leaving the nursery but like all children before a momentous trip I found myself unable to eat. Bessie was not easily deterred and insisted I at least take a few biscuits wrapped in cloth for the long ride. She then draped a shawl over her slender shoulders against the morning freeze and walked me out of the nursery which I will never set foot in again.

As we passed my aunt’s room she tentatively enquired “Will you not say goodbye to the Missis?”

“No.” I answered. “She came to my crib just before bedtime, no doubt to pierce the last arrow as a Parthian kills his foes. She told me on no uncertain terms that I need not bother her or the children with my departure in the morning. Then she told me to think well of her as she has been my best friend and sole caretaker throughout all these years, and speak well of her and be grateful to her accordingly.”

“And what did you answer in return to her kind words?”

“Nothing. Her lies did not merit an answer. I turned my back to her and all supplications for me to keep her good name.”

“That was very wrong.” Protested Bessie.

“If she had been any kind of friend I would have held her to me as a drowning man does to a piece of shipwreck in a gale. As it is, she has been nothing if not my enemy. Goodbye Gateshead.” I whispered softly “May I never see your chambers in my lifetime for you have been nothing but a Bridewell. A Pentonville. A Bastille for my soul. I am well rid of you.” I admit these last few thoughts were overly dramatic and lacked any real world perspective of the horrors of prison life, but my felicitous mood had made me fanciful and even hopeful for a better future.

I did not reveal to Bessie that I had spent most of the night mulling over the conversation I overheard her and Mrs. Abbot have, while they took me to be asleep in the nursery, a few days before. They had discussed my parentage, a subject that had been a mystery to me all these years. The revelation, for Bessie was quite ignorant of my origins as much as I was, was no doubt spurred by my imminent departure. They talked in low tones about my father, a poor clergyman, who my mother had married despite him having no prospects, and against the expressed wishes of her family and friends. That Uncle Reed was the only one to stand by her and that my grandfather Reed, who had been so incensed by her disobedience, crossed her off and left her without a shilling to her name. A year into their marriage, my father had tragically died of Typhus, which he caught while administering to the poor of his curacy, situated in a large manufacturing town, and which he had transmitted to my poor mother who died within a month of his demise.

I did not know how to feel. The revelation of one’s history in such an unexpected way made me feel as a man being shown his visage in a mirror after a frightful war-wound had left him scarred. It was a plunge into ice water, the feeling of suffocation making all rational thought impossible. I kept all this to myself and deigned not a living soul, not even Bessie’s, worthy of being made witness to my happy turmoil.

We made our way to the gates by a lantern held by Bessie. We saw a light in the porter’s lodge and as we approached, we were greeted by the porter’s wife, kindling her fire, and found my trunk, which had been brought there last night and contained my few measly belongings, a sorry picture of a child who had never been given anything he could keep. It wasn’t long till the hour struck and we heard the distant sound of wheels and saw the lamps hanging on the coach as it made its way up the path, parting the morning fog as it rushed towards us. I heard Bessie and the porter’s wife discussing my journey and how worried they were for me to do it alone without being accompanied. As it drew to a stop, the coachman urged haste in us and quickly hoisted my trunk onto the roof.

“Be sure to take good care of him!” cried Bessie “Ay, ay!” returned the coachman and that was all there was to it. I was on my way to parts unknown to a life that was strange to me.

The drive to Lowood felt as if it stretched unnaturally to me, ignorance in matters of distance and speed made the journey seem endless. Though we passed many towns of different sizes, we only stopped at one, close to noon, called L-----; a very large town, no hamlet or village. We entered an inn where my fellow travelers had a chance to rest, stretch their legs and have some dinner. I still had no appetite to speak of and so was led by the guard to a large room with a fireplace on each end and not much more in the way of furnishing. Here I took to walking about, apprehensive as to my chances of being kidnapped, said apprehension put there, no doubt, by Bessie’s stories, of which, the most exciting ones contained rogues of that kind. The guard returned at length and away we went again, leaving L-----, the morning having turned into a wet and dreary noon. It suddenly dawned on me how far I was being carried away from Gateshead Hall and the thought was not as cheery as it had been that very morning, six hours ago. The dread of the unknown kept me awake for quite some time and I could not bring myself to sleep through the remaining journey, though the other passengers saw fit to do just that, having, I suppose, no apprehension regarding their destination. Eventually the country’s scenery changed the gray hills surrounding us with dark woods ensconced in a valley we were fast descending to. The twilight deepened and a wild wind rushed thought the trees, finally lulling me into sleep.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************  
The sudden cessation of the sound of the wheels and the feel of the movement woke me. The door to the coach opened quite abruptly and, what appeared to be a maid, stood at the entrance holding a lantern. “Is there a boy named John Watson amongst you?” she asked briskly. I simply answered ‘Yes’ and was then lifted out with my belongings, the coach leaving the second my trunk touched the ground.  
I stood gazing at a great, stony wall with a wooden door which had hanging by its side a plaque, with the words ‘Lowood Institution’, the word ‘institution’, rather than ‘school’, stuck to my mind. I was taken through the door and heard it being locked behind me. Passing through, I stood gazing at what I assumed was Lowood. A great house, or houses, for the building was quite complex, with many windows, through some I could discern light which I always associated in my mind with warmth. Splashing wet, we made our way up a pebbly path and reached, through a door and the hallway beyond it, to a great room with a fire where I was left alone. The fire revealed at sporadic intervals the innards of a parlour, not grand but comfortable. I took to warming my fingers and wait but I did not wait for long and was joined by two men, the first a bit stout but with a commanding yet gentle voice, a noble brow and elegant demeanor, he had a gold watch attached to his hip. The second looked somewhat more careworn, though quite a bit younger, and listless, as if there was always something he should be doing but could not remember what it was.  
“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said the first, putting his candle down on the table. He considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further added “He had better be put to bed soon; he looks tired: are you tired?” he asked, placing his hand on my shoulder.

“A little, sir.”

“And hungry too, no doubt. Let him have some supper before he goes to bed, Mr. Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school, little boy?”

I explained to him that I had no parents. He inquired how long they had been dead, how old I was, what my name was, whether I could read, write, and work a little. Then he touched my cheek gently with his forefinger and said he hoped I should be a good child. He then dismissed me along with Mr. Miller. The man I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me appeared, as I said, some years younger: the first impressed me by his voice, look, and air. Mr. Miller however looked haggard and tired. As I later found out he was an under-teacher and had a great amount of responsibilities attached to his station within Lowood.

We passed many corridors, all silent passages, within Lowood until at length we reached the sound of a humming of many voices and entered an elongated room with four very long tables of polished wood with a fireplace located at each end of the hall. There was a great space between each table and between the tables and the walls of the room. Seated all around the chairs on either side of each table were boys of all ages from nine to twenty, but seated from youngest to oldest, with the oldest at the ends closest to the hearths and the youngest converging in a ‘crossroads’ at the points the four tables met. Their numbers appeared to me endless, unaccustomed as I was to see more than a handful of people throughout my day all my life, as I was not allowed to join the Reeds at church, though I begged many times to be taken, God being one of the very few places I sought solace.  
In reality there were no more than 80 students or so. They were all dressed in uniform, very plain and somber attire, and as it was the hour of study, the great humming I heard was their repetition of the lessons of that day and their combined efforts to commit them to memory.  
Mr. Miller paced and sat me by a bench near the door and then walking to the top of the room he cried out:

“Monitors, collect the lesson books and put them away!”

Four boys, each sat at the corner of each table on the side that had its back to the wall, rose and collected said books and removed them.

“Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!”

The four boys went out and came back presently with a tray each on which there was a pitcher of water with one common mug to be used by all of us in turn, and bowls with a small portion, of something I could not discern, as supper. The portions were handed out but when it came to me I did not yet feel hungry enough to partake, though I hadn’t eaten all day; perhaps from excitement and fatigue. And so I simply took a long draught of water from the pitcher using the communal mug, for I was indeed thirsty. I saw now that the meal consisted of a thin oat cake broken to pieces.  
Meal over, the prayers were read by Mr. Miller and we filed out, two and two, upstairs. Too weary at this point to notice anything about the room I had been led to, except that like the schoolroom it was very long. I was made aware that my bed fellow for that evening was to be Mr. Miller as I had not been assigned a bed yet. As I lay down after being helped out of my simple clothes and into my night shirt I noticed the long row of beds and how each was occupied by two students. Ten minutes passed and the light was snuffed out and so with it, my wakeful state. I closed my eyes and as I opened them again it was to the sound of the waking bell. All the boys had hurried out of bed and dressed in a frantic pace even though it was not yet dawn. I was bitter cold but rushed through my ablutions as quickly as I could which was not simple as there was one wash basin for six boys.  
We all formed in file, two and two, and were led downstairs and into the cold and dimly lit schoolroom.  
Prayers were read yet again by Mr. Miller who afterwards called:

“Form classes!”

With a great tumult all the boys scrambled to their preordained places and assembled, seated themselves, with a book in their hands, in a semicircle which formed itself in front of each of the long tables, a single chair on the other side of it with a great book, like a Bible, opened in front of the vacant four seats. A humming naturally arose after a few moments of inactivity, Mr. Miller hushing the students as he passed each class.

A bell rang and Mr. Miller took his place in front of the semicircle, near the door, with the youngest students’ class, to which I was assigned, as three more teachers entered the room and settled themselves behind their respective desks. School consisted of Mathematics, Grammar, Geography, Nature studies, Ancient and Modern History, French and Latin and Gardening and Agriculture. For the gardening and agricultural studies, we had a patch of dirt allotted to us, two students each, which was more useful during the spring and summer months.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************  
From here on I shan’t bother to communicate our day to day life within the confines of the school but focus on the events that shaped me as a young man; in particular Mark Morstan.

He first caught my eye on my second day at Lowood while being punished by his teacher who taught the second group up, out of four (I, as I said was allocated to the first group) He was my age so it was surprising for me to see him in a more advanced class but then I rationalized this with the fact that I did not know how long he had been a student at Lowood. He was very slight; full lips and gentle features with hazel eyes, he had a pale and unhealthy complexion. The teacher, Monsieur Pierrot, as I later found out from Mark, was in the habit of punishing him most diligently to eke out his bad habits, the chief of which was his lack of attention during classes. I was shocked at his sanguine manner and the lack of emotion in his countenance during his beating, which was being administered with a rod to his back, between the shoulders. The first time I bore witness to his unfair treatment, on my second day, as I said, I dropped my writing tablet, which shattered on the floor and drew everyone’s eyes to me including Mark’s, who looked apprehensively at me, perhaps fearing I would join him in his punishment for having carelessly broken my tablet, led by the shock I felt of how he was being treated. I was unlucky enough to have done so on a day on which Mr. Brocklehurst made one of his rare visits to the school, throughout which, I made an effort to remain out of his sight lest he reveal my “duplicitous nature” to the school, and particularly to the staff, for they will never regard me as anything but a liar after he makes his opinion of me, or rather my aunt’s, clear. Mr. Brocklehurst was the head administrator at Lowood; his family owning the complex, and checked in from time to time, to make sure the school’s running was as efficient and economical as possible, and decided to visit us as the school was assembled in the schoolroom in the manner I described above. He was in conference at the head of the room, near the hearth, with Mr. Stamford, the gentleman who first greeted me with Mr. Miller two nights earlier when I arrived, of whose name I have since been made aware of. The topic which they appeared to discuss was as follows, as I had made an effort to listen to their conversation to ascertain whether I was the subject at any point:

The day before had been a miserable one: Hunger had finally caught up with me and, to my dismay, had done so at a most inconvenient a time. Morning had not done much in way of alleviating my hunger; cold water and a small half slice of dry bread. The porridge that noon had been burned and was so foul tasting it was considered inedible, and though we were hushed by our teachers several times (since the students made a point of complaining of the dismal state of our lunch in loud voices), the teachers themselves made no pretense to hide their revulsion with statements of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Appalling!’. We were led outside for our morning constitution, to be spent in the garden where our little plots of frozen earth were lying dormant during the winter months. We weren’t dressed nearly warm enough to spend any length of time outside, our uniforms not equipping us to deal with the cold. People stood around, finding cover from the rain wherever they could. Eventually we were lead back inside and were greeted in the schoolroom by Mr. Stanford:

“I have been made aware that today’s lunch was impossible to eat and so, under my own discretion, you will be supplied with cheese and buttered bread.” And that was all. He left and not a minute later the tray was brought in and we fed properly. This of course was an issue that needed to be explained by him to Mr. Brocklehurst as he didn’t see the burning of the porridge as a problem but an opportunity for us to deny ourselves as the martyrs did willingly. He appeared angry at the expenditure and was asking Mr. Stanford to explain himself.

It was at that moment I dropped my writing tablet, the beating of Mark taking place throughout their hushed conversation, and Mr. Brocklehurst’s attention turned to me, along with everyone else’s. With a tone that conveyed that he had suddenly remembered, but had almost forgotten, a very crucial piece of information he had been meaning to relay, he said “Ah, Watson”. He continued as follows:

“Before I leave, I need to talk to you about the newest addition to our School. It is with a heavy heart I must make a proclamation regarding a new schoolboy. Normally I don’t take the trouble of singling out a student for special treatment, and it gives me no pleasure to do so now, but I must warn you of this child and give strict advice in your dealing with him. John Watson is a liar. He must not be trusted and all love and affection is to be reserved from him. Do not offer him your friendship or your help. No compassion or warmth. He is to deal with life alone until he sees the error of his conduct and to feel the sting of isolation. Let him live like a castaway and see the sorrow that comes with a life spent in sin.”

And with that statement finished he approached me, called one of the older boys, a monitor I think, and asked I be put on a stool. He then took writing utensils and wrote ‘Liar’ on a piece of paper which he pinned on my coat. Before he left he made it clear I must not leave my post till the end of the day and for those who pass to pay attention and learn from my mistakes. I could not contain my anger and dejection. My fate in the school was sealed and the first eyes I sought were those of Mark, the Little Martyr, as I called him in my mind. I don’t know why his opinion mattered so much but I could not discern from his expression whether his opinion of me had indeed changed. Mr. Stanford I sought next and could not deduce anything from his countenance either. But fortune smiles at us in the most ways and at the most unexpected time. As the schoolroom started to empty he made a point of passing near me and in a fast, bird-like, movement of his head, he directed his powerful and expressive eyes at me. He made me powerful. He gave me strength.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************  
A few days later, as we were forced out for our daily constitution, I found him reading in solitude. It was not raining for the first time since I had come to Lowood and the clear sky made it possible for him to read rather than just stand under the cover of the verandah as was his usual habit. Up to this point I had spoken to no one in the school. Whether it had been by my apprehension at being scorned as a liar by the others, or by their fear of associating with me after being warned not to, I cannot say. It was now that I remembered the word ‘Institution’, the memory brought about, no doubt, by the proximity to the outside wall and the presence of a second plaque which went on to say further:

‘Lowood Institution. — This portion was rebuilt A.D. —, by Naomi Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.’ ‘Let your light so shine before all men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’— St. Matt. v. 16.

I was still pondering the signification of ‘Institution’, the words not leaving my mind, and so I turned to Morstan.

"Is your book interesting?" I had already formed the intention of asking him to lend it to me some day.

"I like it." he answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which he examined me.

"What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the bravery to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was completely contrary to my nature and habits. But I think his occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind since I could not yet digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.

"You may look at it if you like," replied the boy, offering me the book.

I did so and a brief examination convinced me that the contents were far less enthralling than the title. ‘Rasselas’ looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, genii or pirates; no bright variety seemed to spread over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to him and he received it quietly, without saying anything and was about to relapse into his former studious mood but again I ventured to disturb him.

"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is ‘Lowood Institution’?"

"This house where you have come to live."

"And why do they call it 'Institution'? Is it in any way different from other schools?"

"It is partly a charity-school. You and I, and all the rest of us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan; are not either your father or your mother dead?"

"Both died before I can remember."

"Well, all the boys here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an ‘institution’ for educating orphans."

"Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?"

"We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each."

"Then why do they call us charity-children?"

"Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription."

"Who subscribes?"

"Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in London."

"Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?"

"The lady who built the new part of this house as that plaque records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."

"Why?"

"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."

"Then this house does not belong to that tall gentleman who wears a watch, and who supplied us with bread and cheese the day the porridge burnt?"

"To Mr. Stanford? Oh, no! I wish it did though, for he has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst for all he does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes.”

“Does he live here?”

“No. He lives two miles off, at a large hall.”

“Is he a good man?”

“He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”

“Did you say the gentleman was called Mr. Stanford?"

“Yes.”

“And what are the other teachers called?”

“The one with red cheeks is called Mr. Smith; he attends to the agricultural work, Mathematics, Geography and Nature studies. The little one with black hair is Mr. Scatcherd; he teaches Ancient and Modern History and Grammar and the last one, apart from Mr. Miller, is Monsieur Pierrot. He comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French and Latin.”

“Do you like the teachers?”

“Well enough.”

“Do you like the little black haired one, and the Monsieur -?— I cannot pronounce his name as you do.”

“Mr. Scatcherd is hasty and you must take care not to offend him; Monsieur Pierrot is not a bad sort of person.”

“But Mr. Stanford is the best, is he not?”

“Mr. Stanford is very good and very clever; he is above the rest, because he knows far more than they do.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Two years.”

“Are you an orphan?”

“My mother is dead.”

“Are you happy here?”

“You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present. Now I want to read.” But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner and we all re-entered the house. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetizing than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast. Dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, from which rose a strong steam of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of pale potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation, a moderately abundant plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself whether every day’s fare would be like this.

After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom where lessons recommenced, and were continued till five o’clock. The only marked event of the afternoon was that I saw Morstan dismissed in disgrace by Mr. Scatcherd from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom, within the ‘crossroads’ of the four large tables. The punishment seemed to me humiliating and unfair, especially for so great a boy, for I found out, after dinner, that he was thirteen years old and not of my age as I had thought. I expected he would show signs of great distress and shame but to my surprise he neither wept nor blushed. Composed, though grave, he stood; the central mark of all our eyes. ‘How can he bear it so quietly and firmly?’ I asked myself. ‘Were I in his place I would wish the earth to open and swallow me up, just as I did the day Mr. Brocklehurst affixed me onto the stool for all to take example of. He looks as if he were thinking of something beyond his punishment, beyond his situation; of something neither around him nor before him.’ I had heard of day-dreams and wondered whether he was in a day-dream now? His eyes were fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it; his sight seemed turned in, gone down into his heart. He is looking through his memories, I believed, and not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a boy he is; whether good or bad.

The day ended with half-a-slice of brown bread and a mug of coffee, both of which I devoured for I was very hungry and remained so even after this meal. We made our way to our beds and I felt my sleep pushed back by all the questions that were still in my head, surrounding Mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, John's first kiss is tinted with tragedy.


	4. Chapter 4

It was not until late February that I had finally plucked up the courage to approach Mark in the garden which was surrounded by Lowood’s stone wall, the same garden where we usually took our daily constitutional which came after the midday meal; the same garden where I had first approached him some time ago as he was reading. I was not yet accustomed to the company of other people, other than the company of my relatives and their staff, let alone that of other children. However, I was lucky enough to have been assigned to Mark’s patch of dirt, allotted to him for cultivation. Every patch was assigned to two students with which to grow the vegetables that will nourish us throughout the months when agricultural effort was made worthwhile by the warmer climate. Spring had finally arrived and made the ground pliable and workable.  
We were not given anything to plant that would grow into something beautiful, only that which can be made use of. This upset me greatly, as I had never been given the chance of creating anything; to watch it grow and become something else through my care and attention. My efforts were rewarded in another way, however, by the chance of spending time with Mark, my fascination with him not yet fully understood by me. I had many topics of conversation I wanted to broach, all of them had the potential of making Mark uncomfortable and even alienate him from me, were he not the kind soul that he was. We were in our working clothes on all fours, turning the ground to plant the seeds we were distributed by Mr. Smith at the door leading to the garden. I noticed Mark’s pallid complexion and sickly look as I approached, which, I am sad to say, never left him since I had arrived, as I had hoped it would when the weather became warmer. The most burning question in my mind, and the one I approached him with first, was regarding his stoic acceptance of the disproportionate amount of punishment he seemed to endure by the teaching staff; most of all by Monsieur Pierrot, who seemed to have no patience when it came to poor Mark, and how I seemed to feel myself, the beatings he almost daily received. Far from being uncomfortable, he smiled and seemed saddened that his distress was felt so keenly by me. He was worried the added pressure, compounded with the fact that I was somewhere so far from my family (Mark not yet aware of how glad I was to have been given the chance to be away from them all), would make my stay unbearable.

“I find teaching and the passing of knowledge to be one of the noblest things humans can do for each other and my lack of attention during class cannot go unpunished. If I were to pray to be spared of the rod I would be doing something most hypocritical and I abhor hypocrisy. Monsieur Pierrot is trying to better me by mortifying my flesh and I cannot resent him for it. I sometimes find myself listless and bored: either the information being presented in class is already known to me from previous solitary study or, alternatively, I am going over something I have read not long ago that I need to organize in my mind. The fact that I spend my time in a more noble pursuit during my mind’s absence, while at class, then what I imagine Monsieur Pierrot thinks I am actually doing, does not excuse my rudeness nor should it.”

“I would break the branch under his nose were I in your shoes!” I said indignantly.

“That would only lead them to get another and beat you even harder with the purpose of breaking it on your back. It is better to suffer silently and turn the other cheek as the Good Lord tells us. This life ends and with it sorrow and grief. Eternity among the Luminous Beings is our reward.”

“The luminous beings? Do you mean Angels?” I replied, somewhat ashamed of my ignorance. Mark seemed to reawaken at the chance to explain.

“Our world is but a fraction of that we cannot see. The world of the Spirits is what lies beyond the veil. The place we all go and reunite with those who have left us. It is where I wish to go and join my mother. My father… he has made it plain as soon as she died that he did not wish for my company in this life. I cannot think ill of him though, for grief may have affected him in ways I cannot fathom. He loved my mother dearly and I have been told my features bare her image, and so he may have found the daily reminder after her death as unbearable as poor Verginius would have after his daughter, Verginia, had been threatened to be taken from him by Appius Claudius.”

“Verginius?” I inquired, ashamed once again.

“It is too sad a tale for such a beautiful day. In any case, whatever his reasons were to send me here, as soon as her body was buried, remain with him and so I take comfort in thinking his actions were not governed by malice but rather tainted by unimaginable grief which may have caused him to come to blame me for her death.”

I was stunned to silence. I could not have imagined a sadder story than the one he deemed me worthy enough to share in. I was too scared to ask if his father’s conduct towards him before his mother’s death was as cruel as it was after. It may have been, and that fact would negate Mark’s supposing it was only his mother’s death that turned the tide of emotion within his father against him. I found I had sunk further and further towards the ground we were rummaging through on all fours, the more he shared of his sorrow. To be treated thusly by one’s own father. Sorrow is a heavy thing.  
We continued in our efforts silently until at length Mark pulled out of his pocket a small burlap bag which contained seeds not given by Mr. Smith.

“What are those?” I asked, intrigued.

“These were given to me by Mr. Stanford. They are poppies, or rather they will be” he smiled “once our efforts are rewarded.”

I was astonished at how lucky I had become, for even secret desires seemed to be answered by this gentle being. I happily doubled my efforts. The prospect of having something shared with Mark, something that belonged only to us, filled me with a new emotion; like basking under the sun, like being chosen by someone else to share an experience no other can take part in; only me and him.  
We decided to plant them square in the middle, the other vegetables, the kind that would grow tall rather than deeper into the ground, obscuring them so as not to draw unwanted attention to them, and yet not tall enough to deny them the sunshine they sorely needed. Poppies usually grow late spring to early summer so it was not an ideal time to plant them but we had high hopes.  
As we were finishing up I still had a niggling question I was almost too afraid to utter, scared it would make Mark realize his error and reject me after all; a fear which was irrational and somewhat unfair towards Mark if you take into account his character as I knew it by this point. However, not all fears can be rational.

“Are you… are you not afraid of me Mark?”

“Afraid? Are you monstrous? Do you hide ill will towards me or those I care about?” he said with a grin.

“Mr. Brocklehurst has made my character plain to the whole school. He has revealed me to be a dissolute soul who takes pleasure in deceit. So I repeat: are you not afraid?” He had his answer ready.

“Were you truly as he says you are, you would not inquire after my feelings on the matter. Nor would you be as afraid of my answer as you appear now to be. You strike me as a wronged soul. Why should I be afraid of those that life has made humble as you appear to have been made humble? Why should I fear your nature if we share the same misfortunes? No. I do not fear you, nor do I fear the world’s censure.”

I smiled. I smiled for a long time until Mark’s curiosity made me reflect on sadder things.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking but what motivated his remarks? What information was he given and by whom?”

And so I disclosed my sad tale, as I once, in a moment of anger, threatened to do, when I stood in front of Mrs. Reed in the drawing room, the day Mr. Brocklehurst came to call on her. He listened intently, making no remarks, which worried me somewhat, for I had hoped to be commiserated with for my woes. I did not realize he was trying to concentrate on my story during my retelling and working out a solution while doing so, until at last, after I had finished, he simply said “Come with me.”  
We made our way back to the house and he led me for quite some time. I was keenly feeling the suspense waiting to be told what he had in mind. We stopped in front of a door and he knocked three times. When the door opened I was surprised to find myself face to face with Mr. Stanford.  
After the normal pleasantries were gotten away with, Mark instructed me to repeat my story and to ask for advice on how to clear my name. I was asked that above all I exaggerate nothing, nor hide any information either; to speak plainly and honestly as a young gentleman ought to. In my account I did not forget to mention Mr. Hardwood. The impression he made on me after the horrid occurrence in the Red Room, still palpable. Like Mark, Mr. Stanford took his time thinking the matter over when at last he asked:

“Does everyone in the household share in Mrs. Reed’s opinion? Is there not one soul who is not wholly prejudiced against you?”

I could only think of Bessie. The only soul to have shown me kindness throughout my stay at Gateshead Hall that I can remember, my uncle dying before such memories could be formed.

“Will this Bessie speak in your defense if prompted to do so?”

“I believe she would indeed sir.”

“Then I shall write to her today and ask for an account of your childhood. If it acquits you of the monstrous allegations made on your character I shall make it public to the whole school, and staff, myself.”

Relief is an odd feeling. It comes in many forms and in many degrees and can even nourish a soul and a body if it has long awaited for it. But it is nothing, if it does not find its roots in hope: I had hoped to be believed, and I was relieved by Mark and Mr. Stanford’s faith in my character; I hoped Bessie would acquit my character, and will find no relief till she does.  
At this point, with the promise made, I could not find my place in the conversation, the topic eluding me and being discussed by people of far superior minds than mine. Lost as I was, I found immense pleasure in seeing Mark light up at being conversed with as an adult. His pale face gained a rosy tint and his lips got back some of their lost colour. He came back to life and I felt an odd sensation of joy; a spiteful one, I am ashamed to say. For though Mark found it in his heart, not only to forgive Monsieur Pierrot for his harsh treatment, but to justify it, I could not bring myself to do the same, and so I was happy. Happy that Monsieur Pierrot did not get the chance to witness Mark Morstan this happy, this alive and engaging. That Monsieur Pierrot could not raise this gentle soul’s mind out of its inner world by his mediocre attempts at teaching; dull subjects chosen and self-gratifying rhetoric being the best he could come up with.  
We broke for tea with Mr. Stanford at some point and were fed on buttered bread and cheese of his own dispensation, much to the housekeeper’s chagrin, for she was Mr. Brocklehurst’s appointee for the proper dispensation of Lowood’s amenities. Tea finished with, we bid Mr. Stanford goodbye and left with his promise to write Bessie at once. My sudden joy at being reminded of my newfound hope almost made me miss the look of sadness with which Mr. Stanford bid goodbye to Mark. I followed him back to the schoolroom, our absence explained by Mr. Smith who was notified of our whereabouts beforehand so as not to cause alarm and not put us into any kind of trouble with the teachers. The memory of Mr. Stanford’s parting look unnerved me and felt like a stab each time my mind brought the image back to me.  
That night I dreamt of Amethyst coloured water, and of Mark drowning in it.

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The next fortnight was of little consequence and I filled most of it, when not in study, with drawings I began to make with surprisingly skillful hands. Mark praised my talent and even offered subjects for me to draw when I could not think of any myself. I was not yet allowed to study the subject and all my sketches were rough and lacked the beauty a trained hand could lend them.  
At last, towards the middle of March, Mr. Stanford assembled the whole school, students, teachers and staff, and pronounced me clear of all the charges that had been laid against my character. A letter had been produced in my defense “written by a retainer of Gateshead Hall,” and to it was also attached another account by Mr. Hardwood “which completely corroborated young John Watson’s claim to innocence and exonerates him of the monstrous allegations which were so publicly laid against him!” The mention of Mr. Hardwood, and his unexpected, and in my opinion, undeserved, efforts in helping me adjust to my new life, brought back the memory of his thumb, trailing along my bandaged head and the sudden flash of emotion that simple contact brought. I was flustered and could not understand at that moment why, but I had no time to organize my thoughts as I was being patted on my back by nearby fellow students, accepting me as one of their own, as they were not allowed to do so before. The teachers then shook hands with me and a murmur of respect ran thought the ranks of my companions.  
Thus relieved of a grievous load, I decided from that hour to work afresh and resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty. I toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits.  
In a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class; and in less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses of the verb 'etre', and sketched my first cottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivaled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, going to bed, I quite forgot the supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was allowed to amuse my inward cravings. I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands — freely penciled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over un-blown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wren’s nests enclosing pebble-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays on craggy rocks. They all featured Mark in some way. Every single one. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate, currently, a certain little French story which Monsieur Pierrot had that day shown me; the problem not solved to my satisfaction before falling asleep.  
Well has Solomon said—”Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.” I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for Gateshead Hall and its daily luxuries.

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The next chapter in Lowood’s history is too abhorrent to recall without feeling drowned in grief and horror. Death had come to stay within the confines of our school and would not leave it for several months. You could see it walking down the halls, bidding it’s time and taking at a whim what he ruthlessly and efficiently felled: The forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an hospital.  
Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty boys lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health. Had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them in any case. Mr. Stanford's whole attention was absorbed by the patients: He lived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of those boys who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only to die, but, as I said, most died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding any delay. While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor, while there was gloom and fear within its walls, while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the students’ little dirt beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies, the teachers too busy to keep the “useless” beauty in check and out of the vegetable patches. The sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples. But these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put inside a small coffin.  
But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season. They let us ramble in the wood, like gypsies, from morning till night. We did what we liked, went where we liked and we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now and the household matters were not scrutinized into. The cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection, and her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little. Our breakfast-basins were better filled and when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.

My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another boy and me, and at that time my chosen comrade—one Henry Knight; a shrewd, observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because he was witty and original, and partly because he had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, he knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear. With him my curiosity found gratification. To my faults also he gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I said. He had a turn for narrative, and I, for analysis. He liked to inform, and I, to question.  
So we got on swimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.

And where, meantime, was Mark Morstan? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with him? Had I forgotten him? Or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of his pare society? Surely the Henry Knight I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance. He could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate in any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in. While, if I have spoken truth of Mark, he was qualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of his converse a taste of far higher things.  
True, reader, and I knew and felt this. And though I am a defective being, with many faults, as I have laid them against myself at the beginning of this tale, and have few redeeming points, I never tired of Mark Morstan, nor ever ceased to cherish for him a sentiment of attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Mark, at all times and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation ever troubled? But Mark was ill at present. For some weeks he had been removed from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. He was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house with the fever patients, for his complaint was consumption, not typhus, and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate. I was confirmed in this idea by the fact that he once or twice came downstairs on very warm and sunny afternoons, and was taken by Mr. Stanford into the garden. However, on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to him. I only saw him from the schoolroom window, and even then not distinctly; for he was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the verandah which I and the other students had used when I first came, to shield us from the rain during our midday constitutional.  
One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Henry in the wood. We had, as usual, separated ourselves from the others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got back, it was after moonrise. A pony, which we knew to be the surgeon’s, was standing at the garden door. Henry remarked that he supposed someone must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. He went into the house but I stayed behind a few minutes to check on mine and Mark’s poppies and to plant in our patch a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer. The flowers smelt so very sweet as the dew fell and it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm. The still glowing west promised another fine day on the morrow and the moon rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things and enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never done before:  
‘How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying! This world is pleasant— it would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where?’  
And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell. And for the first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf. It felt the one point where it stood: the present; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door open and Mr. Bates come out. With him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her.

“How is Mark Morstan?”

“Very poorly,” was the answer.

“Is it him Mr. Bates has been to see?”

“Yes.”

“And what does he say about him?”

“He says he’ll not be here long.”

This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed the notion that he was about to be removed to Northumberland, to his own home. I should not have suspected that it meant he was dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Mark Morstan was numbering his last hours in this world, and that he was going to be taken to the region of spirits he so longed for, if such region there was. I experienced a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire—a necessity to see him and so I asked in what room he lay.

“He is in Mr. Stanford’s room,” said the nurse.

“May I go up and speak to him?”

“Oh no, child! It is not prudent and in any case now is time for you to come in. You’ll catch the fever if you remain out while the dew is falling.”

The nurse closed the front door and I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom. I was just in time for it was nine o’clock, and Mr. Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

It took me no more than two hours to give up on my desire to fall asleep and to make up my resolve to see Mark, even if it was indeed just to take my leave of him forever. The thought pained me once again and the feeling of the widening gulf threatened to topple me once again. As I set my feet on the cold stone floor I saw Henry stir. He did not utter a single word but just left his bed in much the same way I did and followed me without being asked. I made my way to Mr. Stanford’s room, taking the same path Mark led me through after I had told him of my dilemma. When we were certain to be far enough from any inquiring ears, Henry finally asked me, in a hushed voice, what we were doing, just so he could understand in what way he could help. I asked him to stand guard outside the room while I made my way in, so I am not caught during the act of going inside, and to leave soon after, for I did not wish him to find himself in any trouble. Since I did not intend to leave the room till I was forced out of it, there was no need for him to risk himself further. He did not question my actions and understood them to be of utmost importance, for this was not anything I did with any regularity, even with the state of affairs being what they were in the school at that time, and he was also quite aware of the awe in which I beheld Mr. Stanford and so, he was convinced it was not my intention to cause any mischief.

I went inside, dreading what I would find there.  
Mark was in a crib, gossamer curtains surrounding it and making his image partially obscured. He was on his side, with his face towards the door and me, and he appeared smaller than I remembered him, but, then again, illness does strange things to our perception of our suffering loved ones. There was a small rustling sound I took to be the snoring of the sleeping nurse, who was sitting in a comfortable chair by the hearth which lay on the other side of the room but close enough for poor Mark to feel the warmth and yet not be suffocated by it. The sound of the snoozing nurse reassured me in my actions and so I approached the crib, parted the sheer curtains and climbed inside. Mark stirred awake, his eyes, far less alive than I was used to, staring at me. It took him some time to understand I was not part of his delirium and it took me some time to overcome the paralyzing horror I felt at that moment. Mark recovered quicker.

“Are you a dream?”

I smiled “I have come to be of comfort to you.” I did not dare to mention what had roused me to do so but knowing Mark, he must have known well enough what had spurred my visit at such an hour of the night. He smiled back and I felt the pain of his impending absence again.

“Then indeed, you are a dream.”

At this I broke the dam that held my tears. I crouched down and mirrored his lying body, the crib barely holding both of us. He very slowly raised his weak hand and wiped the tears away. I was taken aback by the surge of emotion that ran through me, reminding me once again of that unidentified rush Mr. Hardwood had placed in my stomach many months before. I found no words I could tell Mark at this time. I made no plans before my feet touched the cold floor of the dormitory fifteen minutes before, and I had made up no valedictory in my mind as I walked with loyal Henry by my side all the way here. My tongue failed me. I am almost eleven and I am staring at the death of my first love. I only realized it at that moment and the words never come. My face nears further and further to his. He closes his eyes slowly, as if blinking is too much of an effort. My breath ghosts over his face while his breath, the scent of warm milk wafting calmly within it, touches my face. I brush his lips and he makes the tiniest of movements, the effort for him as that made by Atlas before Medusa passed him and gave him her merciful stare. We kiss, and he draws a fraction back, and I do the same, and he is angelic and I cannot see through my tears, and he closes his eyes for the last time, and he leaves me behind and joins his mother “beyond the vale” to wait for a father that may have never loved him.

I told myself he fell asleep as sleep overtook me a few minutes later.

I awake to the surprised sounds of Mr. Stanford and the nurse as they lift me up and out of the crib; Mark’s lifeless eyes reflexively open by now. I hear their “Dear God!”s and “Poor child!”s

“He stayed the night in his crib!”

“Poor child, to be confronted with death in such a manner.”

I struggled against the arms that held me. I knew I had to run if I wanted to do what I wished to carry out in time. I reached the garden, yanked with all my might and ran back into the house to supplicate with Mr. Stanford to allow me to see poor Mark off before the lid is closed forever over his tiny coffin. He consented, supposing that any precaution taken regarding the danger of me catching the consumption that had taken Mark was quite needless after having spent the night in such close proximity to the child.  
I approached the box. Stony faced I dropped the poppies inside and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I interspersed some of the original work into the main body of MY text. When there is no deviation to be made from the story, which is not often and will become less and less of a regular occurrence I hope, I simply used Charlotte Brontë's own incredible words. These will usually be of a descriptive nature rather than plot. Hope you don't hold it against me.


	5. Chapter 5

I will not relate to you in great detail the events which took place between Mark’s passing and my leaving Lowood never to return. They do not make for an exciting tale nor do I wish to convey to you the loneliness I felt during that time, for Mark had changed me irrevocably. Until those few brief months I spent with, brief time which culminated on his deathbed and brought with it the realization of my own feelings just before kissing him for the first, last and only time. I say that until that time, I had longed for some form of companionship, not knowing how painful the absence of it would feel, as soon as that companionship turned to love.

My fellow students did not offer me much in the way of consolation, not being aware of my true feelings; they thought I mourned the passing of just another student. I only found some solace in the company of Henry Knight, for he knew I cared deeply for Mark, having helped me reach him on the night of his death, yet even he could not guess as to the true depth of my feelings.

But Mark did more than change my views on friendship and love. He set me on the path to God. His true devotion, as opposed to Mr. Brocklehurst’s hypocritical view on morality (until he was humbled by the calamity which took Lowood Institution in the Spring and Summer of 1840 and claimed the lives of two thirds of its students), Mark transferred to me, and what had been but a flicker, kept alive in spite of my family’s neglect and unwillingness to allow me the opportunity for true worship, turned into a beacon to guide me.

And so it was that I was put on the path to becoming a clergyman.

After the devastation left by the Typhus, Mr. Brocklehurst was not the same man. As I related, he did nothing but remove himself completely from Lowood during those months before my 11th birthday, and never came near, leaving the school to fend for itself. The governing board, which consisted of the neighbouring subscribers, petitioned for an inquiry into the cause of the tragedy that overtook us and Mr. Brocklehurst’s dealings were soon brought to light. His negligence, the economies he made on the expense of the student’s well-being, including the insufficiently warm attire, the lack of nutritional value provided by our meals, the unhealthy location of the school even. All these details, once uncovered, brought with them public indignation and a demand for change mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst but beneficial to us and the institution.

Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced and the funds of the school were entrusted to the management of a committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathizing minds. His office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. Mr. Stanford, however, was commended on his conduct and courage during those hellish months. He was given more responsibility and more decisions were left in his hands than before. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance.

Thus humbled, Mr. Brocklehurst was made into a better man. He saw his errors and found his true devotion to God lacking in its sincerity. His words became softer, his attitude congenial and even fatherly at times. It was he who encouraged me into the life of a clergyman, advised me and guided me. I was grateful for his assistance and would have stayed in Lowood until my admittance into the Seminary but alas, my feelings changed once Mr. Stanford decided to leave Lowood soon after his Enbrotherment. I was not aware of the existence of this ceremony, nor was I aware of any attachment which would compel Mr. Stanford (or Michael as I grew accustomed to calling him after I began to teach at Lowood), to bind himself to anyone in such a way, though we had grown closer within the last two years. It was with Henry’s father of all people, a widower. I attended the ceremony which was presided by Mr. Brocklehurst, and bid them all farewell as the post-chaise took all three of them onto their new life. Michael left me his watch; a beautiful piece that kept perfect time but ironically, now only seemed to count the time I felt was now being wasted behind Lowood’s walls. I began to crave freedom again. The road that stretched to the old seat of Lowood Institution ran through our new abode and my mind always drifted to the day I was brought here and from which I have since never quitted it. As per Mrs. Reed’s instructions, all my vacations were spent here and so Lowood and its surroundings have been all that I have known from the age of 10 till the age of almost 18. It was now becoming clear to me that the dull ache which twisted into knots every time I let my eyes wander outside the confines of our institution, was never truly gone, just silenced by Mark’s friendship and, to a lesser extent, by Henry’s and Michael’s companionship.

I contacted Michael and made him aware of how I felt. I had no knowledge on how to go about moving from one position in life to another, to shift for oneself as the saying goes. I approached him in a letter, asking him what I should do until my admittance into the Seminary, which could take some years, and he answered in the simplest of terms: Advertise.

And so I did: “A young gentleman accustomed to tuition” (had I not been a teacher for the last two years?) “is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen (I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). He is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music” (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive). “Address, J.W., Post-office, Lowton, -----shire.”

I asked the school’s superintendent permission to go into Lowton on a personal errand for myself and two of my fellow-teachers. It was granted and I made my way on foot for two miles on wet road towards the town. After visiting a shop or two I slipped the letter into the post-office and came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart that the task was done and that fear of the unknown did not deter me.

The following week seemed long, as all periods of time stretch when they are coupled with excitement for new prospects and the promise of new lives. But it came to an end at last and on a warm early-Summer day on which I reached the post-office again to enquire after any letters sent for me.

My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker’s to the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.

“Are there any letters for J.W.?” I asked.

She peered at me over her spectacles, looking as if I were being discourteous to her simply by asking her to do her duty, and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance—it was for J.W.

“Is there only one?” I demanded.

“There are no more,” said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I could not open it then since rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven. Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the boys during their hour of study. Afterwards, it was my turn to read prayers and see them to bed. Only then I supped, with the other teachers.  
I reached my small room, allotted to me when I became a teacher, at a quarter past 11. My candle was near its end so I decided to read my letter, rather than change into my night attire first, before it was extinguished completely and I was left wondering about its contents until the morning.  
The letter read as follows:

“If J.W., who advertised in the ‘-----shire Herald’ of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if he is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered to him where there is but one pupil, a little boy, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum (my current salary at Lowood was fifteen pounds per annum). J.W. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: “Mrs. Hudson, Bakersfield, near Millcote, -----shire.”

My trepidation in this affair went away as soon as I read those words. It was not fear of rejection but of stumbling by ill luck into a situation that could become dangerous for a young man of my age, ignorant of the ways of the world. Could not perhaps my naiveté be used against me? But the letter was clearly written by a woman of age, the writing being old-fashioned and hesitant. I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Hudson! I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability. Bakersfield! Doubtless, that was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises. Millcote, -----shire; I brushed up my recollections of the map of England, yes, I saw it; both the shire and the town. -----shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided. I found that fact to be a recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement and Millcote was a large manufacturing town; a busy place, no doubt. So much the better, I thought. It would be a complete change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke made by the manufacturing— “but,” I argued, “Bakersfield will probably be a good way from the town.”  
Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out.

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All the formalities for my departure; Breaking the news to Mr. Brocklehurst (who had become a friend of sorts since his reevaluation), fetching for Mrs. Reed’s consent (for she was still my legal guardian as I was on the verge of turning 18), acquiring all the proper recommendations from the school’s board, all these, postponed my second letter to Mrs. Hudson (the first one, I sent a few days after receiving her reply) by a month. A few days before leaving though, Mr. Brocklehurst honoured me with the vestments of a priest. I was given a cassock and a white collared tie, an honour not usually bestowed on anyone not yet within the Seminary. I felt pride in my vestments and the duty they signified.

The day before my leaving I was approached by a young maid.

“There is someone here calling on you Sir,”

‘The carrier, no doubt’ I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry. I was passing the back-parlour or teachers’ sitting-room, the door of which was half open, to go to the kitchen, when someone ran out.

“It’s him, I’m sure! I would have recognized him anywhere!” cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand. I looked, and I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and lively complexion.

“Well, who is it, you think?” she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognized; “you’ve not quite forgotten me, I think, Master John?”

In another second I was embracing and kissing her cheek rapturously:

“Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!” that was all I said; whereupon she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers.

“That is my little boy,” said Bessie directly.

“Then you are married, Bessie?”

“Yes; nearly five years since. To Robert Leaven, the coachman, and I have another little boy besides little Bobby there, that I’ve christened John.”

“And you don’t live at Gateshead?”

“I live at the lodge since the old porter has left.”

“Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie: but sit down first; and Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will you?” but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother.

“You’re not grown so very tall, Master John, nor so very stout,” continued Mrs. Leaven. “I dare say they’ve not kept you too well at school: Master Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are, and would make two of you in breadth, though, I should say, he IS very well fed”

“What about Georgiana? She is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?”

“Very. She went up to London last Winter with her mama, and there everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her. But his relations were against the match; and—what do you think they did?—he and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away; but they were found out and stopped on their way to Gretna Green. It was her sister, Miss Reed, who found them out. I believe she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are always quarrelling when Georgiana is not reminding everyone in the household how she was cheated out of happiness by her pernicious sister—”

“Well, and what of John Reed?”

“Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to college, and he got—plucked, I think they call it, though I think that just might be a simple turn of phrase for getting kicked out. And then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study the law, but he is such a dissipated young man, they will never make much of him, I think. He is far more likely to appear in court to defend himself more than anything else.” this last part she whispered, “He gambles and whores and drinks himself into a stupor more often than not…”

“What does he look like?”

“He is very tall. Some people call him a fine-looking young man; but he has such thick lips.”

“And Mrs. Reed?”

“Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she’s not quite easy in her mind: Master Reed’s conduct does not please her—he spends a great deal of money.”

“Did she send you here, Bessie?”

“No, indeed, but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I’d just set off and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach.”

“I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie.” I said this laughing, for I perceived that Bessie’s glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration.

“No, Master John, not exactly: you are gentlemanlike enough; you look like a proper young man, and it is as much as ever I expected of you, though you did not show much promise as a child, but neither were you given chances to show any promise either.”

I smiled at Bessie’s frank answer. I felt that it was correct, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import. At eighteen most people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an exterior and interior likely to arouse that desire brings anything but gratification.

“I dare say you are clever, though,” continued Bessie, by way of solace. “What can you do? Can you play on the piano?”

“A little.”

There was one in the room and so Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me to sit down and give her a tune. I played a waltz or two, and she was charmed.

“Master Reed and the Miss Reeds could not play as well!” said she exultingly. “I always said you would surpass them in learning. Can you draw?”

“That is one of my paintings over by the chimney-piece.” It was a landscape in water colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of his obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, and which he had framed and glazed.

“Well, that is beautiful, Master John! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed’s drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who could not come near it. And have you learnt French?”

“Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it.”

“Were you taught how to dance as a young gentleman ought to know?”

I smiled for I was embarrassed to admit to the fact that part of the new curriculum that was introduced to Lowood after the reformation included dancing lessons which were taught once every three weeks.

“Yes Bessie, though only with other boys,” I said in gest.

“Oh, you are quite an accomplished young man, Master John!” she said, ignoring my attempt at self-deprecating humour, “I knew you would be. You will get on whether your relations notice you or not.” After a small pause, in which she seemed to have been struck by a sudden memory, Bessie said “There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father’s kinsfolk, the Watsons?”

“Never in my life.” Much to my disappointment.

“Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable. Now they may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Watson came to Gateshead Hall and wanted to see you; Missis said something about you having been at school fifty miles off. There was more she said but I did not get a chance to hear it because my duties took me elsewhere; he seemed so much disappointed when I saw him leave soon after, for he could not stay. He was going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father’s brother.”

“What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?” I exclaimed, my tone betraying my hopes.

“An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine. The butler did tell me—”

“Madeira?” I suggested, disappointed at the distance that now stood between me and the only living relative of whose existence I am aware of.

“Yes, that is it—that is the very word.”

“So he went?”

“Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him; she called him afterwards a ‘sneaking tradesman.’ My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant.”

“Very likely,” I returned, the disappointment now evident in my tone; “or perhaps clerk or agent to a wine-merchant.” which would explain his voyage to that island.

Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer in which I also conveyed to her as much as I could about my time spent at Lowood and the path I had chosen to take, my vestments making the point clear to her without my explanation. At length she was obliged to leave me: I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each going our separate way; she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to take her back to Gateshead, and I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote and to Bakersfield Hall.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

It is difficult to convey in words the excitement that gripped me when I finally had the chance to sit down in an upstairs room within the George Inn at Millcote.  
Such fine surrounding, elegant carpets and furnishings, fine ornaments and a splendid portrait of George the Third and another of the Prince of Wales hanging above the mantelpiece. I left Lowton at four a.m. and the Millcote town clock is now striking eight p.m. And yet, in spite of the comfortable surroundings, I am not quiet in my mind. There was no one to receive me as I disembarked the coach; no one asking for me by name. It felt like I left port without knowing if I would see hospitable land after the voyage.  
My anxiety took the better of me and I made my way downstairs to enquire after Bakersfield Hall.

“Are you Mr. Watson?” the porter asked.

“Yes.”

“Gentleman here waiting for you.”

I rushed back up to take my traveling cloak and hat and went downstairs to be greeted by a brooding gentleman; sharp, crooked features and no smile. He was standing by the door where my belongings were already waiting for him to be put inside the conveyance that was to take us to Bakersfield Hall.

“Are you Mr. Watson? They didn’t tell me we were expecting a priest.”

“I’m not a priest yet, just attired as one.”

“I am the Bakersfield Hall’s coachman. Sylvester Anderson. Shall we?”

And with no further comment he gestured for me to get inside. Before he shut me inside I asked him how far to Bakersfield.

“About six miles. An hour and a half riding.”

The conveyance was comfortable but not elegant. I supposed that Mrs. Hudson was not a wealthy woman and thought ‘so much the better’. I have never lived in the company of the wealthy but once, and it was an abominable experience. I should be happy to live in humble surroundings. I wondered if she lived alone, and if she would be amenable and kind, or whether I am to be cursed with a second Mrs. Reed. ‘And what if I am?’ thought I ‘I can always advertise again, can’t I?’

I opened the window to see how far from Millcote we were and I could see it quite in the distance though the drive had been leisurely rather than hurried. Millcote seemed, in the distance, to be of considerable magnitude; much bigger than Lowton had been; less picturesque, more stirring.

I looked at the driver, angled out of the window as I was, “How long have the Hudsons been dwelling in the area?”

He looked at me strangely, as if curious as to why I would ask that of all questions though I thought it was perfectly reasonable to be curious about one’s future employer.

“The Hudsons? All their lives. Mr. Hudson died quite a few years back, related to the Holmeses in a way I know not, but his wife still keeps here.”

‘Holmeses? Are they a family I am to be acquainted with?’ I closed the window, the conversation managing to rouse more questions than help in putting others down.

It was two hours before Mr. Anderson turned to me and said we were approaching Bakersfield Hall at last. On the road I could see a small but pretty church with a graveyard, the bell tolling a quarter.

Not ten minutes later we passed through the gates and made our way to the front door of the house, which was dark at that hour except for one large room. I was greeted at the entrance by a pretty little maid with a dark complexion.

“Will you walk this way sir?”

I followed and, when inside, I was blinded by the fireplace and candle light, having spent the last two hours in darkness. But after my eyes got accustomed to the illumination, I began to be very pleased with my surroundings. The room was cozy and very snug. Round table, plush and rich carpets, large and comfortable window seats and armchairs placed on each side of the fireplace, whereupon one sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Hudson, only less stately and milder looking. Thin and small framed, like a little bird. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing, in short, was wanting to complete the ideal image of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a new tutor could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old lady got up and promptly and kindly came forward to meet me.

“How do you do, my dear Sir? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; Sylvester drives so slowly. You must be cold, come to the fire.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I suppose?” said I.

“Yes, you are right. Do sit down.”

She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my cloak and take my hat from my hands; I begged she would not give herself so much trouble.

“Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with cold. Sally, make a little hot Negus and cut a sandwich or two: here are the keys of the storeroom.”

And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, and delivered them to the servant who had accompanied me inside.

“Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,” she continued. “You’ve brought your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll see it carried into your room,” she said, and bustled out.

‘She treats me like a visitor,’ thought I. ‘I did not expecte such a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like what I have heard of the treatment of tutors and governesses; but I must not exult too soon.’

She returned and with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Sally now brought, and then she herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before received, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior; but as she did not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her civilities quietly.

“Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Young Master Hudson tonight?” I asked, when I had partaken of what she offered me.

“What did you say, my dear? My hearing isn’t quite what it used to be,” returned the good lady. I leaned forward, not wishing to seem too forward by approaching her and repeating what I said right to her.

“Young Master Hudson? Oh, you mean Young Master Adler! Adler is the name of your future pupil.”

“Indeed! Then he is not your son?”

“No,—I have no family.”

I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way Master Adler was connected with her; but I recollected it was not polite to ask too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.

“I am so glad,” she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took the cat on her knee, “I am so glad you are come; it will be quite pleasant living here now with someone that is learned enough to converse with. To be sure it is pleasant at any time; for Bakersfield is a fine old hall, rather neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is a respectable place. In Winter-time, though, one feels dreary quite alone in even the best quarters. I say alone—Sally is a nice girl to be sure, and her husband Sylvester, they are both very decent people; but then you see they are only servants, and one can’t converse with them on terms of equality. One must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one’s authority. And Lestrade, Bakersfield’s butler, is too near my age to cultivate a friendship with, without it seeming unseemly, though I am older than him.” I was astonished at her frankness on the matter, “I’m sure last Winter (it was a very severe one, if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it rained and when it did not rain, it blew), not a creature but the butcher and postman came to the house, from November till February; and I really got quite melancholy with sitting night after night alone. I had Sally in to read to me sometimes but I don’t think the poor girl liked the task much; she felt it confining. In Spring and Summer one got on better: sunshine and long days make such a difference; and then, just at the commencement of this Spring, little Adelmar Adler came with his nurse. A child makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay when Autumn turns to Winter this year.”

My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk, her frankness reassuring me rather than disconcerting me as it would do with anyone not accustomed to honesty; and I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere wish that she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.

“But I’ll not keep you sitting up late tonight,” said she; “it is on the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day. You must feel tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I’ll show you your bedroom. I’ve had the room next to mine prepared for you; it is only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one of the large front chambers. To be sure they have finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself.”

I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her candle, and I followed her from the room. As we made our way upstairs I wondered why she would put a servant so near her own chamber.

The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a church rather than a house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of space and solitude. At length she enquired as to my opinion of the house. When I commented it’s grandeur she answered:

“Yes, it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Holmes should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener. Great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”

“Mr. Holmes…” I exclaimed, remembering my conversation with the coachman. “Who is he?”

“The owner of Bakersfield,” she responded quietly. “Did you not know he was called Holmes?”

Of course I did not—I had never heard of him before; but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.

“I thought,” I continued, “Bakersfield belonged to you.”

“To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the housekeeper—the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the Holmeses by the mother’s side, or at least my husband was; he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay—that little village yonder on the hill—and that church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Holmes’ mother was a Hudson, and second cousin to my husband: but I never presume on the connection—in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeeper; my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing more.”

“And the little boy—my pupil…”

“He is Mr. Holmes’ ward who came here with his ‘bonne’ as he calls her; he commissioned me to find a tutor for him. He intended to have him brought up in -----shire, I believe.”

The enigma then was explained: this affable and kind little widow was no great dame; but a dependant, like myself. I did not like her the worse for that; on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. The equality between her and me was real; not the mere result of condescension on her part. ‘So much the better,’ thought I, ‘my position is all the freer if the Master keeps away so often. The house is run by the servants for themselves rather than for their employer’.

“The nurse is a foreigner and Adelmar was born on the Continent and, I believe, never left it till within six months ago. When he first came here he could speak no English; now he can make shift to talk it a little: I don’t understand him, he mixes it so with French; but you will make out his meaning very well, I dare say.”

Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French gentleman, and as I had always made a point of conversing with Monsieur Pierrot as often as I could, and had besides, during the last seven years, learnt a portion of French by heart daily—applying myself to take pains with my accent, and imitating as closely as possible the pronunciation of my teacher, without offering offence to him, I had acquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness in the language, and was not likely to be much at a loss with Young Master Adelmar.

I was glad, when finally ushered into my chamber, to find it of small dimensions, and furnished in ordinary, modern style. When Mrs. Hudson had bidden me a kind goodnight and I had fastened my door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure eroded the eerie impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase and that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room, I remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven, my ship touching port. I thought of Mark, as I always do on such occasions. What would he have said, what would have been his opinion of the situation and of the people I have met and was going to meet soon. Thinking of Mark brought about the impulse of gratitude which swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting, ere I rose to take off my vestments and change them for my night attire, to implore aid on my further path, and the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so frankly offered me before it was earned. At once weary and content, I slept soon and soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to go up two weeks ago and, indeed, was put up but taken down not half an hour later. I have been using the original text as a crutch more and more and when I realized, when I reread it, how little I had written of the second part of this chapter and saw there were things I wanted to add or even change that I refrained from doing so, so as NOT to deviate from the original text, it dawned on me that this was the whole point of me writing the story to begin with.  
> I have decided to add the changes and to keep to the original Brontë text ONLY when the story requires description and not plot or dialogue. In case of plot or dialogue things will be changed and maybe even omitted.  
> As for the next chapter, all I can say is that Sherlock is coming and his entrance will be as grand as everything else the man does.


	6. Chapter 6

I cannot describe how odd, and even alarmed, I felt during the first few seconds after I awoke on the morning following my arrival at Bakersfield Hall. For eight years I had been made accustomed to wake by a bell toll every single day, and the previous ten by the brusque Mrs. Abbot, and to find myself woken by sunlight (since drawing the curtains last thing at night was not needed throughout my life, for I always woke before the sun rose, I had neglected to do so last night as well), it immediately instilled a sense of panic that comes when oversleeping. I frantically got out of bed to make my way to the wash basin but, my surroundings registering (the location of the wash basin being the first to draw my attention to the change in my surroundings), and with it, last night’s events, the people I had met, the conversations I held, all of these attacked me at once, and I smiled. I smiled because I felt relief, because I felt excited, because I felt ridiculous.

 

I drew the curtains shut, made my way back to bed and climbed back under the covers, rejoicing that I could, for once, afford to oversleep. Knowing Mrs. Hudson, she would not begrudge me one morning in 18 years.

 

After I woke up for the second time, took care of my morning ablutions and dressed (a feeling of pride in my vestments filling me once more), I made my way down to be formally introduced to my charge and his nurse. I found them breaking fast in the dining hall with Mrs. Hudson, and a man whom I assumed was Lestrade, Bakersfield Hall's butler. Silver hair, boyish good looks and a sharp eye, he sat quietly in his livery. Sally was there as well, serving them before she took her seat at a small table by the sideboard, the swish of her garment as she walked around the table oddly soothing in the quiet dining hall. A place had been set for me and I took it as I was stared at by Lestrade, Adelmar and his nurse.

 

"I didn't know we were expecting a priest for breakfast." Lestrade said in a gravelly voice.

 

"This is the new tutor Gregory. Mr. John Watson." Mrs. Hudson offered kindly.

 

"And I am not a priest yet," I smiled "just attired as one." I might have to resign myself to saying those words quite a few more times; particularly when the master of the house arrives. I was strangely amused by the thought.

 

"A child priest? Shall I assume your talents are great enough to recommend you despite your young age?"

 

That had stung in a very sharp way. It didn't seem to have been said out of malice and was quite an understandable inquiry into my capabilities. It was even somewhat comforting to know the staff was concerned enough about the child's wellbeing and education to make such inquiries. Nevertheless, it still stung.

 

"I can assure you that my time spent in Lowood institution had prepared me well enough for the task of granting a child the foundations of a proper education. So well, in fact, Lowood had entrusted me with the education of its youngest students for the last two years, a signal honour for someone as young as myself." I did not mean to sound so defensive, risking the good opinion of someone I have known for such a short time, but I could not comport myself differently, the sting needing to be removed quickly but ending up being removed violently.

 

"Gregory, I can attest to the fact that Master Watson came highly recommended by his fellow teachers and to their accolades was also added a personal letter from Mr. Brocklehurst himself, the guide to Master Watson's priestly duties and Lowood's highest ranking administrator."

 

I had not been made aware of this final letter, smiling inwardly as I always did at every opportunity Mr. Brocklehurst's newly found kindness had a chance to shine and blur away further and further the image of the stern and unfair Schoolmaster he had once embodied.

 

"My apologies, young master. My comment was not meant as an insult, I assure you. It originated more out of astonishment. Knowing Mrs. Hudson as I do, I am not worried in the least about your worthiness to the position of tutor. To be honest, I am more impressed than apprehensive, but knowing the Master of the house, your precociousness will fit in well and will appeal to his sensibilities." Nothing in Lestrade's manner suggested he was looking to appease me after the fact. I only saw honesty.

 

"A word of advice however, since you seem to become so guarded and defensive at the mention of your youthful intelligence. The Master is, for lack of a better word, blunt... Honest... Blunt." At this Sally let out a small snigger and Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth with her hand. "He will belittle your intelligence, often and in varied and imaginative ways. Take no heed to his words. You'll soon get used to it. He has no patience for the unintelligent and unfortunately the category seems to include the whole of the human race excepting his deceased older brother who he could not stand the sight of." At the mention of the elder brother my curiosity got the better of me and I blurted out:

 

"Why were their relations so strained?"

 

The room quieted except for Adelmar and his nurse who kept on supping, unaware as they were, for obvious reasons, of the subject being discussed. At length, Mrs. Hudson answered for the gentleman.

 

"It's a history that concerns only the Holmes brothers and their father and so we are entirely ignorant of the facts and do not wish to be acquainted with it. Suffice it to say that the matter no longer poses an issue with the passing of the Elder Holmes and his father." At this Lestrade seemed to lower his head and turn it aside in a quick movement, as if an errand thought had passed through his mind that seemed to trouble him and he was attempting to dismiss it before it caused him further distress. Sally, who had been quiet throughout the meal, began to speak,

 

"I heard…"

 

"Sally, hold your tongue." interposed Mrs. Hudson "What you heard is nothing more than town gossip invented by people who have never stepped through our very gates nor ever spoken to a soul within them."

 

"But what about Mr. Moran…"

 

"Sally, you will remove yourself, this instant.” Lestrade interrupted her, his voice rising and startling Adelmar because of the unexpected change in tone the conversation had taken. “Go and join Molly in the kitchen." as Sally left the room, Lestrade smiled at Adelmar to reassure him.

 

"You mustn't pay any heed to the girl's foolish remarks. She's a nice girl but far too curious for her own good and almost always reaches the wrong conclusions, unlike her husband who seems to see no further than he must and raises no questions." Mrs. Hudson offered, after Sally quietly made her way down the hall. "What has passed between the Holmeses is no longer an issue and hence warrants no further comment. The aforementioned Mr. Moran's role within the household may seem mysterious to a young girl of Sally's age because of her ignorance in the way a grand manor's staffing is structured but there is nothing sinister about it. He is no more than an under-butler, and a very capable one at that."

 

"I can attest to that." Lestrade Added "Now, let's have no further talk on the matter."

 

The subject warranting no further discussion, we finished supping and left Lestrade to his duties while I retired with Mrs. Hudson and Adelmar, accompanied by his nurse, to the library which I became determined to use for Adelmar's education as soon as I entered it; at least till I could make the request formally to the Master of the house.

 

It was grand and spacious as was expected; polished wood, carpets thick enough to sit on comfortably during storytelling, high ceilings and, of course, window seats: comfortably cushioned and draped with thick garments. The whole room was shaded in deep greens and burgundies.

 

I perused the entries on the shelves in a small section closest to the entrance and found no books I could use to entertain a child. This did not particularly worry me since my memory could provide enough stories to fill a child's time from the age of 10 till he grows out of the need for them. But I did find it puzzling, on further browsing, as to what use would a country gentleman find in so many books on the subject of chemistry and physiology. Some had to do with philosophical studies on the human mind, and some with criminal behaviour. I supposed these books were used for amusement and to assuage a natural curiosity on the subjects, rather than as actual aides in a chosen profession.

 

The books left behind, I turned my full attention to my charge. He was a dark child, happy demeanor, dark locks and plump lips, round face and green eyes which seemed to me an exotic combination. Being completely ignorant as I was as to the appearance of Master Holmes, I could only guess at the relation this young boy had to him. Had he been his son it would have been made plain the moment I arrived but there seemed to be an unguarded secret regarding his parenthood. Almost as if it would be related to me as soon as I made the enquiry with the person who holds the information, but that person did not appear to be Mrs. Hudson, for she was just as anxious for me to speak with the boy regarding his origins as I was to find out about them.

 

Adelmar began his story by telling us about his mother. The information was fragmented and even fanciful; a child sees his mother and the choices she makes differently than the adults around him. Still, any information was better than none:

 

Mademoiselle Irene Adler was an opera singer. She followed a career in opera as a contralto (this term he had difficulty in remembering and was helped along by his nurse), performing in La Scala, Milan, Italy, and a term as prima donna in the Imperial Opera of Warsaw, Poland. Adelmar only remembers a string of hotel suites but no homes. It would appear that she was quite attached to the child and would not part with him and give him out to foster though it could be assumed any other woman in her position would have done so and feel no guilt about doing so, the arrangement seeming a sensible one for a woman in her profession.

 

Adelmar remembers her songs, her dresses, her jewelry, the men she entertained and the women that she associated with. He finished by telling us of his mother’s death by a slow consumption, the superficial parallels to my own origin eliciting a pang of melancholia. At this point Adelmar was taken across Europe to England and arrived at Bakersfield Hall, none the wiser of the behind the scenes arrangements that were made, supposedly by Master Holmes, to lead him to the life he will now lead.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The first thing I was determined to start with, in regards to Adelmar’s education, was teaching him proper English. I began by making hundreds of paper notes attached to strings which took three days in preparing and scattering. The whole estate was now covered in them, each one with the name of the object in French and in English. The staff was asked to leave them as they are so long as the objects weren’t used and put them back on once the object was no longer needed. They even found it amusing to see them dangling in the wind like small flags. They were also asked to converse whenever possible with the child and teaching him how to hold himself in English conversation. I took Adelmar by hand every day and we strolled through the grounds and the house, each time asking him what was the name of every object we passed by. During the first few weeks he would run from me to the object and back and report the name while I would correct his accent: Window, chair, Butler, Lestrade, drape, book, table, skillet, oven, cook, Molly, scullery, apron, door, tree, branch, leaf, flower, petal, hoe, cart, wheel, shed, Sylvester, gate, coach, gravel, maid, Sally, vanity, bed, mirror, basin, stranger… That word he knew all by himself and he applied it to the man standing on the third floor corridor of the house (where I, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had our dwellings), by a door I never gave much consequence to. He stood there. Moran. I assumed it was him since he was the only member of staff I was not acquainted with yet. He was somewhat burly and ruggedly handsome but scarred slightly on his right cheek, the wound awfully close to his eye. He smiled and turned back inside with the tray he was carrying, though it was obvious he meant to take it to the kitchen. Strange that he would be allowed to have meals in his own room, if indeed that was his room he stepped out of.

 

After weeks of our “language walks” I began his formal education, which was to be done entirely in English; hence my need for him to know it so throughly and the reason why I spent so long in teaching him the language, before engaging him in any other subject.

Geography he loved since it reminded him so much of his travels, but he was also quite adept at mathematics, botany and Latin.

 

The first story I ever told him was the story of the Cuckoo:

It told of a young French peasant boy of 14 called August, the child of simple farming folks who, ever since he could remember, always dreamt the same dream each night, or rather dreamt the same story each night. It would always advance; always move forward, like chapters in a book. In his dreams, he was entrusted with the Porpentine: a crystalized, bright star that possessed a slight pinkish hue, which he hung about his neck and had to be delivered to the Hierogram, an obelisk made of the same unknown substance as the Porpentine, by traversing a land called Skerrie, all the while his army waged war against the Cuckoo in order to distract it, while he himself avoided the Cuckoo and its minions as he made his way to the capital. He didn’t know what for, or what he would have to do once he got there, only that it had something to do with a God name Murphy.

The animals that protected him and advised him called him Prince Augustus: There was Alfred the shrew who could walk like a man and was the size of a small child, a Dodo named Donald, even though she was a girl, Pinar the monkey, who could not climb and was dressed like a bellhop and Martin Tenbones. Martin was like a cross between a lion and a sheep dog but the size of a horse and cart. He was August’s fiercest protector.

 

Eventually August stopped dreaming. Not only of Skerrie but altogether. He figured he had grown up and so put the story behind him. Then Martin Tenbones appeared with the Porpentine when August turned 19. He was attacked and chased by the villagers who were scared out of their wits when they saw him. He ran through the fields all the way to August’s home and died of his wounds on the front step with the Porpentine between his teeth. August cried, feeling that he had abandoned his friends, and took the Porpentine from Martin. He put it around his neck and was gone along with Martin’s body.

 

August found himself back in Skerrie, with his friends looking on unbelieving within the cave they had been hiding in ever since Martin left, promising to return August. They told him of the resistance that was failing, about how his army had been destroyed during his absence and how the Cuckoo was stronger than ever before. The only ray of hope was that they were close to the capital, and beyond it, the Hierogram. However, it also meant going through the seat of the Cuckoo and the most dangerous part of their decade-long journey.

 

Pinar was the first to die during the last leg of their journey; he was killed by forest creatures who were acting under the influence of the Cuckoo, and after him Alfred was cut to pieces as he tried to hold off the guards threatening August. It was Donald who had treacherously brought them back with her, after she went on her own to look for some firewood. She fell under the Cuckoo’s influence ever since they left the forest and had led the patrol to their camp just outside the forest bordering the capital.

 

August was quite resigned to the idea that he had lost, the death of his friends and Donald’s treachery having left him quite numb to everything. He was manacled and escorted to the seat of the Cuckoo which was no high-towered citadel as he imagined. He passed through the front door of what appeared to be his childhood home and confronted the Cuckoo, who looked exactly like a 6 year old version of August himself. The Cuckoo explained that he was trapped and needed the Porpentine to break free. Just as Cuckoo birds leave their offspring in other nests to grow with the children of other birds, while the original egg had been kicked out to die at the bottom of the tree among its roots, so was he left within August to one day take his place. They couldn’t share a body so one of them had to die in order for the other to live, but something had gone wrong and the process had stopped before coming to fruition. August just nodded as he was quite under the Cuckoo’s influence and would have agreed with any statement made by the Cuckoo, no matter how horrifyingly wrong. The Cuckoo grabbed August’s hand and led him through the capital to a small island on which the Hierogram stood, only reachable by casting a spell that would make the tide retreat far enough to create a sand path. When they reached it, August took the Porpentine and, at the request of the Cuckoo, smashed it against the Hierogram making them both shatter. Then nothing was left but the darkness surrounding the island. The stars fell out of the sky and as August looked on, there appeared before him a cloaked figure with a mound of dirt in his hand, August knew, had to be Skerrie.

 

“Murphy?” asked the Cuckoo.

 

“You may call me that. I am the Lord of Dreams. Why have you summoned me? No. You did not summon me. You.” He turned towards August “You are the one who has taken over Astralla’s dream and made it your own. Why have you summoned me?”

 

“I only did as I was told. I know nothing of this world though it might be of my own creation.”

 

“I have summoned you Lord of Dreams,” interposed the Cuckoo “he is nothing more than the pawn that broke the seal since I could not do it myself.”

 

“Nevertheless, it was he who has completed the pact that was discarded long ago by Astralla’s death. A compromise I have never fulfilled with her and so must fulfill with him.” At this he turned to August once more and said “You may ask me for a boon.”

 

“Can you rebuild this world and make it anew? Keep it alive even if I am no longer its Dreamer?”

 

“If that is what you wish of me.”

 

“NO!” the Cuckoo interposed yet again “I have taken great pains in destroying this hellish plane and I will not be cheated out of my freedom!”

 

“BE SILENT AND OBEY!” Bellowed Murphy, growing ten times his size. “You shall not dictate to me what I will and will not do, interloper! You have miscalculated. You have been mistaken for too long and must therefore pay the price.”

 

At this the Cuckoo became morose; realizing that his hopes at gaining his freedom had been snatched away from him.

 

“Should I not wish to have my friends back again?” August asked, as he sensed the impartiality with which the Lord of Dreams considered his request.

 

“If you are no longer the Dreamer, does it not worry you who will become the Dreamer in your stead?”

 

“Would you kill the Cuckoo if I asked?”

 

“If that is what you wish of me.”

 

“He is evil. Should I not wish him dead?”

 

“Dangerous, perhaps. But Evil? No. The Cuckoo only acted according to his nature.”

 

“Could you make me rich?”

 

“If that is what you wish of me.”

 

“Is money not a worthy gift to ask?”

 

“Money does not last forever.”

 

August fell silent. He thought what it would mean for him to have either revenge, security or his friends back. He went over The Lord of Dream’s words in his head and at length, finally decided.

 

“Bring them back.” August whispered, and as he raised his head defiantly towards the Cuckoo he screamed “Bring them all back!”

 

And just like that the world was remade: August’s friends danced out of the God’s cloak and made their way, with the rest of the land’s inhabitants, in a long line on the sand path that took them back to repopulate Skerrie. The Cuckoo got his freedom and was removed from Skerrie to lands altogether different and August was sent home, forever bound to Skerrie and visiting the land whenever real life became too dull.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It started quite suddenly one night. On one of the rare occasions we were joined by Moran at dinner, I noticed he drank rather a lot of wine, so it wasn’t so surprising when later that night I heard strange noises coming from the room down the hall; the room Adelmar and I had seen him step out of, when he was carrying back his tray to the kitchen, a few months before. I stayed in my room, though I wanted to investigate further for he seemed in quite a bit of distress and, I must admit, my curiosity regarding the man himself was beginning to present a great temptation. However, I felt I would do his pride harm in seeing him inebriated and so decided to wait and listen to make sure his distress did not escalate. After a quarter of an hour or so I heard a second voice, most likely that of Lestrade, and the distressed voice sounded fainter and fainter until it was gone. The house was once again in silence.

 

Sleep eluded me for the rest of the night. My mind would not let me return to my repose unless I could work out a means by which to approach the subject with Lestrade, on the following morning. I was suddenly reminded of our first conversation, when the subject of Master Holmes came up. Lestrade is used to bluntness. I could use that to my advantage. ‘If he seems reluctant to discuss the subject I will drop it immediately but it does seem rather strange to keep an under-butler, however gifted, who gets intoxicated and, consequently, disrupts the house at night and, what’s more, to do so seems rather dangerous as well, should the master of the house ever find out.’ Had it been covered up by them, all this time, and kept from Master Holmes? Is there some function Moran plays within the house that makes him invaluable and makes his proneness to intoxication a bearable fault? Will Lestrade even be willing to converse on the subject?

 

I found Lestrade early the next morning, by the gardening shed strangely enough. I had been directed there by Mrs. Hudson who was going over the linen rotation, not trusting Sally to do it for her. Lestrade, as the Bakersfield Hall butler, obviously had no business there so I assumed he was taking in the morning air as it was getting colder and colder the nearer we got to October; the skies rather gray and appearing to be on the brink of braking, I thought it rather sensible for him to do so at this hour rather than later, when going outside might be impossible.

 

“Good morning.” He greeted me first.

 

“Good morning, Gregory. May have a word with you before we both begin to tend to our duties? I was wondering how you got on with Moran last night.”

 

“Moran? What about him?”

 

“Well, I was woken by the rather, shall we say, delicate state he was in last night; the banging and wailing. It was quite unnerving to say the least. I was wondering whether he was alright. I feared he would do some injury to himself that needed medical attention. I was almost tempted to go see to him…”

 

“Don’t! Moran is quite capable. If there is ever a repetition of last night’s events you can trust me to rectify them as I did last night.”

 

“Repetition? You mean to tell me this is a somewhat regular occurrence?”

 

“I’m sorry to be so curt but I would prefer it if you leave the handling of the servants to me and Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Will Master Holmes feel the same way, if and when he gets to Bakersfield Hall? Will he be so magnanimous towards Moran or the people who have kept his behaviour a secret?”

 

“That is none of your concern Master Watson. Now, do excuse me, I need to get back inside. I suggest you do the same.”

 

As he walked away I raised my voice to his retreating form “If Master Holmes is as interested in human behaviour, and criminal behaviour in particular, as his library suggests, I advise you to keep a close watch on the secrets you keep from him. They may not be worth the risk.”

 

“Well, he would know about secrets, just as you say.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“If and when he comes, as you so elegantly stated, ask him about the Deverell twins. Ask him what he _felt_.” And with that, he was gone.

 

The Deverell twins. I never heard that name before. Were they family friends? Are the Deverells connected with Bakersfield Hall and the Holmeses?

 

I went back inside determined, more than ever, to follow my instincts next time I hear noises in the night. It will not do to live in a place and not know it. ‘I might even be held accountable if I were to be thought as aiding Moran in his deceit.’

 

However, October turned into November and the incident did not repeat.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It was at the start of November that I realized my life had finally fallen into a pattern for me in Bakersfield Hall, yet not an oppressing one as it did for me before. Mrs. Hudson was invaluable company and, putting the incident by the gardening shed aside, Lestrade had become quite a good and reliable friend (though I never did press him for more details on his comment regarding the Deverell twins, as I was not keen on reminding him of that strained chapter in our acquaintance), as did Sylvester Anderson and his wife Sally to a lesser extent. Molly, however, was the one I became closest to, though I met with her the least, since I had little business to do in the kitchen within my capacity as tutor. It seemed she was a very good cook, though rather young (like myself), and, through our discourse, I seemed to perceive a certain attachment to Master Holmes, though she had only met him a handful of times, pertaining to the fact that she was not serving staff. Adelmar had also found a corner to claim in my heart and I felt attachment to the boy and became protective of him.

 

I was going over the very subject of my attachment to Bakersfield Hall, and its inhabitants, one morning, when Adelmar had a day away from his studies and I had time for myself, and found that the time away from teaching was making me anxious; as if I was wasting my time rather than trying to enjoy my leisure time as I should. I searched Mrs. Hudson to try and distract myself, when I found her downstairs on the point of calling Sally to help her with an errand. It seemed there were letters that needed to be delivered to the Millcote post office, and I was more than happy to take it upon myself, for I had not ventured beyond the gates since my coming to Bakersfield Hall. I thought it to be a great opportunity to see Millcote and its environs.

 

While my visit to Millcote itself was rather exciting, having never been in town throughout my life and the constant movement being something to almost bewitch anyone who has been made accustomed to country life as I have, it was the long walk to and from that I found most exhilarating. The wild and untamed forests were breathtaking and made my imagination run rampant; the stories told to me by Bessie played out over the scenery, and so I determined to take Adelmar with me next chance I got. He had not seen much of the world outside Bakersfield Hall since coming to stay within its confines, nor did the idea arise, from his stories about his childhood, that he had ever seen anything but city landscapes, going from hotel room to hotel room in his operatic mother’s wake.

 

It was when I reached the bent in the road that led back to the roman wall, over which I was to climb to reach the Bakersfield Hall gate, that I noticed the mist was become very thick. It suddenly dawned on me that Mrs. Hudson’s instructions, as clear as they might have been, would not come to be of much help or use if I could not see the very road I was walking on. I resolved to wait until the mist lifted, at the very least until it was worth the risk of losing my way rather than worry Mrs. Hudson with my tardiness.

 

I sat down on an old, broken down, wooden fence and waited. I did not have to wait long.

 

It began with the sound of running paws. ‘Wolf’ my mind immediately screamed and as the mists parted I saw an enormous dog approach. It was running up the road almost at a galloping speed. The sight so startling it distracted me from the distant, but recognizable, clatter of hooves that were fast approaching from the direction the dog had come from. By the time I realized what those sounds denoted, it was too late for met to step out of the road and return to the fence, which I had left behind astonished, to walk into the path the dog had just taken and left behind. I turned to the noise of the approaching horse and I was terrified in my place when I saw the its black body, its owner’s quick-thinking making him stop abruptly and rear, the animal’s legs just a few inches from my face, and as I lifted my arms instinctively, I heard, rather than saw, its owner fall off. The horse turned from me and ran, not very fast, in a random direction, just as the dog reappeared from up ahead and made his way to the man lying on his side on the ground.

 

“You utter Imbecile! What in God’s name are you doing standing in the middle of the road when there’s a horse fast approaching?!?” I heard him reproach me in a deep voice that could cut your pride to shreds.

 

I drew near the, apparently, injured man in a panic but was growled at, by what I assumed by then was his dog, to warn me not to get any nearer.

 

“Pilot! Enough!”

 

The dog withdrew and allowed me to lift the man’s arm over my shoulder and help him to the fence so he could sit properly, his leg having suffered the brunt of the fall.

 

“Enough of this! Fetch my horse Enchanter. You have bewitched my horse, I know it, you Hauflin!”

 

I ignored his comments, attributing them to a head injury though I saw no blood. I went and did as he asked, or rather tried, but the stubborn beast would not let me approach, and once he did, he would not be led. Finally the rider decided he had had enough, made his way towards me, slowly, on his good leg, and tapped me on my shoulder in order to signal me to stop trying. He managed to get back on his horse, despite his injured leg, and called for his dog to follow him.

 

“Where did you come from, Priest?” he asked before departing.

 

“Bakersfield Hall, Sir. I am a tutor for the child who resides there. Ward to Master Holmes.”

 

“Are you now? And what does he think of you?”

 

“Not much I should imagine for he has never met me.”

 

“And what do YOU think of HIM?”

 

“Not much for I have never met him.”

 

“Honest enough.” He laughed. It was at this point I allowed myself to take a look at the stranger’s face and to see whether my answers had pleased him. I was startled (but managed to hide it well I think, the mist helping me in covering my surprise). The man’s features appeared to be almost feline. His hair wild and untamed, his cheeks high, his eyes showing no colour through the mist, his smiling mouth… I withdrew my eyes, the thoughts in my head scaring me as I felt the semi-familiar twist in my gut I had only felt for only two people in my entire life.

 

“Well, farewell. Pilot, come!”

 

And with that, he was gone. I did not know what to think. I remained behind for a few more minutes, to wait for the mist to clear, and for my nerves to calm down. The impression left behind too powerful for words.

 

As I made my way back, I cut off all thoughts of the rider from my mind. It seemed lewd to make fanciful designs on making an acquaintance with a man I had no knowledge of and might just as easily have been a day-dream I had conjured up while waiting for the vapours to clear.

 

When I passed through the kitchen and into the house in order to find Mrs. Hudson, she found me.

 

“Master Holmes just arrived with an injured leg. He seems to be in surprisingly good spirits despite his injury but he may still turn broody and morose. Before he does, and while the doctor we had fetched is with him, go upstairs and change into your best outfit so you can be formally introduced to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun Duuuuuuuuuuun.  
> The story of The Cuckoo comes from Neil Gaiman's "The Sandman: A Game of You". It's a distorted version that I have remade to suit my purposes but the original is far better than my feeble attempts at a retelling.  
> The Deverell twins are a reference to something that will be explained further on.  
> Hauflin you can easily Wiki and is an obvious reference to The Hobbit and to Rochester accusing Jane of being a magical creature.  
> As for the rest, you can just ask me.


	7. Chapter 7

“Master Holmes just arrived with an injured leg. He seems to be in surprisingly good spirits despite his injury but he may still turn broody and morose. Before he does, and while the doctor we had fetched is with him, go upstairs and change into your best outfit so you can be formally introduced to him.”

I was thunderstruck. Stood there, speechless as I was, Mrs. Hudson began to feel alarmed.

"You need not worry. He's quite alright, just a slight fall from his horse onto his leg. The doctor was asked to call on him only as a precaution; though," she giggled, "his good mood might be a sign that something might actually be wrong and so it's a good thing, in any case, that we took the trouble of asking the doctor to call on him." But Master Holmes' condition wasn't what worried me at all. Certainly if I were ignorant of the facts I would have worried when told my employer took a fall off his horse. However, since I was not unaware of my employer's predicament, it was my unguarded words, the words I uttered on the road, which struck back at me like stones and left me dumb: ‘And what do YOU think of HIM?’ ‘Not much for I have never met him.’

In my distress, all I managed to blurt out was, "Oh, you're quite right Mrs. Hudson. No need to worry without reason, especially now that the doctor is here.” It was then that I recalled what she had said when I first encountered her when I came in, and just before she turned to leave I asked her to clarify.

“Wait, Mrs. Hudson, forgive me for asking you to reiterate, but did I hear correctly? Did you ask me to put on my best outfit?" Sensing what worried me, she tried to appease my fears.

“Oh, no one expects princely gowns, my dear. Just choose the best of what you have."

"But I have no other clothes except my livery and a suit handed down to me by my family."

 "Then just wear your suit and it should be more than acceptable.”

I could see it was a losing battle and her argument was reasonable and sensible. I made my way upstairs slowly, hoping I wouldn't have to talk to anyone else of the household about the arrival of our employer; heavy thoughts weighed down my heavy footsteps: ‘He knew. He knew who I was, standing on that road. I realize it now. He knew as soon as I opened my mouth. There was recognition in his ghost-like eyes. He was mocking me when asking for my opinion regarding "My employer".’ It was then that I started to feel shame for the thoughts that formed slowly, in my mind, as I made my way back to Bakersfield Hall. The pang in my gut which rendered me speechless, when I stood in front of him and dared level my eyes with his. When I took in his features and realized in that moment what I felt, it was the reason I didn't see the recognition that flashed in his eyes. I was distracted by my own emotions.

I reached my room, closed the door behind me and proceeded to put on the only suit in my possession. Flashes of Sherlock’s face flashed before my eyes. I tried to stop focusing on my sudden, unexpected and, certainly inappropriate attraction. 'No good can come of it, you stupid child.' There was the pain, which I wholeheartedly expected to appear and even embraced, as I stamped on the sentiments as they began to take their form as fantasies, fantasies that would involve a connection to him; a connection made on that road in such a befitting, violent fashion. The pain was good, for it signified I had not lost my grasp on how the world works and the distance that stands between me and a man in his position.

I checked my reflection in the wardrobe's full length mirror. Finding my attire lacking any distinction, I reached in my desperation, for the small, gilded vase situated on a wooden table located in my room, plucked a flower, and attached it to my coat’s front pocket.

I went downstairs, the ominous portraits of the Holmes ancestors reflecting the features that Master Holmes inherited, as I made my way to the drawing room. I decided to wait, for the doctor to take his leave, before venturing in.

I watched through the window as the doctor departed in good humour, despite having been called out to Bakersfield in the late hours of the evening. I followed him with my gaze till he made his way beyond Bakersfield's gates. I realized I was stalling the inevitable and the frustration I felt with my childlike behavior had quite decided me, so I quietly, but confidently, entered the drawing room to face my employer's ridicule.

I was greeted by the sight of Master Holmes giving Adelmar a boxed gift. Master Holmes was seated in an armchair, the same armchair Mrs. Hudson had offered me on my first night, and had his back to the door and so did not register me immediately upon my entering the room. He watched quietly as Adelmar, who was sitting on the carpet, began to unwrap his present. The box was of white colour; elongated with a blue silk ribbon and bow. Gregory was standing by the door watching the room silently and greeted me with a wide smile, while Mrs. Hudson did the same as she sat in a comfortable armchair further away from Master Holmes and Adelmar, yet still close enough to enjoy the hearth's warmth, as she quietly knitted. As soon as Master Holmes saw her smile he turned back to look at me with his ghostly eyes, which I could see now, by the strong light emanating from the fireplace, were the colour of verdigris and hauntingly beautiful. It was a realization which I did not welcome gladly.

“Merci beaucoup Monsieur!” Adelmar exclaimed, as he pulled a toy rifle from the box. Master Holmes took a few seconds before turning away from me and towards the child.

“I can see I won't be able to deny you anything. Fitting, as that is how your lovely mother got to my lovely pocket.” Adelmar looked confused upon hearing this but was dismissed with a smile and asked to sit aside quietly and play with his new toy.

I was at first shocked to see Adelmar take the rifle apart as soon as he sat himself back down on the carpet and I immediately turned my gaze to Master Holmes, worrying he might see the action as stemming from ungratefulness, but he seemed almost delighted. Perhaps he felt pleased that Adelmar wanted to satisfy his curiosity regarding how the rifle functioned before actually using it. Master Holmes values curiosity it would seem.

I stood for quite some time, hoping to be acknowledged. At length, Master Holmes stood up, despite his injury, and walked towards the clock situated upon the mantelpiece, opened the glass cover and began to wind it with a small key.

"May I have the time John?"

It took me a few seconds to realize he was talking to me since I was so unaccustomed to being called by my Christian name.

"Uh, oh, yes."

I took my pocket watch out, along with my handkerchief, to wipe the glass in order to bring out the shine, as I always do, out of habit and respect, I suppose, to its former owner.

"It is 23 minutes past 8 P.M."

"Thank you John."

Master Holmes set the time, closed the glass cover and walked slowly back to his seat, gesturing for me, without looking back, to take the armchair set in front of him, the one that faced the drawing room door but had it’s back to Mrs. Hudson. I felt somewhat embarrassed to be given a seat closer to the fireplace than the one Mrs. Hudson currently occupied, and one that was situated in such a way as to obscure her from my view, but she did not seemed fazed in the slightest by it and even reassured me with a kind smile when I averted my eyes automatically towards her, seeking her approval I suppose, when I was asked to sit.

"Were you meeting with your kin on that road, as I suspected?"

Again I was taken aback. I expected him to reproach me for having spoken so honestly about him, to, what at the time I perceived to be, a stranger.

"I am no Hauflin, Sir." I answered boldly. "They have all left England. It is no longer savage enough to neither house them to their satisfaction nor shelter them from the big people. They have all retreated to Germanic and Slavic forests, the woods’ thickness and darkness providing them with far more comfortable homes and much better hiding places." He smiled at this and then proceeded to keep his gaze upon me for a long while without saying another word, a gaze I felt rendered me naked under a harsh light. He did not desist even as Sally walked in briskly with a tray of refreshments in her hands, as if in rather a hurry. She slowed down her pace as soon as she entered the room, however, and set the tray on the table Mrs. Hudson had used on the night I had first arrived to Bakersfield.

After what seemed to be a rather long time for her to set the refreshments down, Sally turned towards the door but seemed somewhat reluctant to leave, shuffling her feet and seeming to be looking for something to dust in the room.

"Sally. Go and assuage your curiosity somewhere else. We have no further use for you." Master Holmes suddenly said, without even turning to look at her, as his armchair was facing away from her and the drawing room door.

Sally stopped what she was doing (or rather not doing) immediately and ran from the room covering her mouth with the palm of her hand as if she were about to cry. I was confused as to what Master Holmes was referring to but I was far from willing to ask him what he meant by the words he directed at Sally, nor why they had elicited such a violent reaction from her. I guessed that I was not acquainted enough with the man to understand his actions just yet.

"So... What is your tale of woe?" Master Holmes directed his question at me.

"I have no tale of woe."

"Haven’t you now? Was it your Uncle or your Aunt then?" I perceived Gregory begin to form a knowing smile. Something was happening.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Was it your Uncle or your Aunt who resented you enough to send you away at the very young age of ten, never to return?" Gregory seemed pleased, standing by the door.

"It was my Aunt. How did you..?"

"Your handkerchief. It is hand-woven silk. Decorative, and so not intended to be used but rather displayed on a coat’s front pocket; seen better days. Comes from money but obviously not your own; family money then, yet you are obviously an orphan, any fool could see that just by the simple fact of you having been educated in Lowood. By the state of the material I would say you have been holding on to it from the moment you left for Lowood at the age of 10 which is the youngest age in which you would be admitted. Not allowed from that day to return and exchange it for one in a better condition. In fact, your suit was handed down to you by your Aunt so you would have a better chance at finding employment and so you would not have any reason or excuse to come back. You are resented by your family then; a feeling that is mutual but not towards all of them since you kept the handkerchief out of obvious sentiment. You mentioned your Aunt so I'm assuming her husband was your blood relative but he is no longer alive otherwise you would not have been sent away.

The watch you keep did not belong to you originally, that is to say, you were not the one who had purchased it; far too extravagant. It was given to you by a revered authority figure at the school as a keepsake. You left the school as soon as he did so no special attachment to anyone who remained at the school but there was someone, since such a long period of loneliness would have impelled you to seek companionship at the school and try to experience friendship for the first time, even a single friend would have done well enough for you to feel fulfilled. No keepsake from him meaning he died young, perhaps from the typhoid outbreak that took the school in the spring of 1840, perhaps not, and he did so before he reached the age in which he would have been able to acquire anything he could have given you. And he himself was not very well loved by his own family, a shared experience which brought the two of you closer. It also means he would not have any personal effects to give you on his deathbed because he most likely brought none with him to the school. The poppies in your coat's front pocket hold a meaning I'm just not sure if it involves the boy or someone else. It's not usually a flower one uses for decoration, even if it is done with the sole purpose of deflecting attention from the drabness of an article of clothing. Being the person who touched you the most during adolescence, though he most likely passed away very early in your adolescent years, I would hazard a guess that he is the one who inspired you to take up the church as your life.” He said all this in what appeared to be a single breath though I know it could not have been. I had no thoughts running in my head while he dissected me; there was no space for thought. Only after he had finished tearing me apart could I see the rubble and what each boulder, belonging to the small edifice that is my life, represented; Aunt and Uncle Reed, their children and the rejection and loneliness I felt when I was isolated from them, the day I was sent away, Lowood and Michael Stamford, my decision to join the church… Poppies and Mark…

‘He’s Brilliant… He’s heartless…’ I did not even realize it had been poppies I had taken from my room. He guessed, no… no, not guessed. He construed my short life’s entire story from 4 articles on my person.

“You reveal so much Master Holmes… Is that what Sally wanted to see? Why you chased her out of this room?” He made no comment.

“Am I entertainment?” I could not keep the hurt from my voice when I made the last statement. ‘Was this how he decided to punish me for the candor I had shown in the mist?’

“Come, come. There was a part of you that enjoyed it. Was it ‘Genius’ or rather ‘Brilliant’ that sprung to mind? ”

“’Brilliant’… and ‘heartless’.”

“Honest enough.” He repeated the assessment he had made on the road. “As for sentiment versus sense, I would rather have the brain, which is far less likely to be tricked if one is paying attention, than the heart.”

“Will you bare yourself so readily to me? I think not. No employer would.” Bitterness seeped in against my will.

“I have nothing I would wish to hide. You can ask as you desire and I will gladly answer.”

I hesitated. ‘Could he be trying to trick me? Was this how he planned to discharge me from my post? By having me speak openly and frankly and so give him an excuse to dismiss me from my charge by claiming I have hurt his pride with my bluntness? Bluntness…’ I suddenly recalled Gregory’s words.

"Who were the Deverell Twins?" Master Holmes gave another knowing look in the direction of Gregory standing by the door.

"A gruesome murder case." At this Adelmar raised his head for he seemed to understand the ghastly word despite me never having taught him.

"Mrs. Hudson. Please take Adelmar to the kitchens and have Molly give him some of the ginger cookies she mentioned having made for him as a treat. She has a very good story to tell him before you take him to bed so he'll be mightily entertained while he has his sweet delight." Needless to say I did not think Master Holmes would refrain from obscuring or even softening the harsher details of his account so I gave my goodnight to both the child and Mrs. Hudson and turned my attention to Master Holmes. He stayed silent for a few minutes gathering his thoughts and then preempted his account with a warning.

“Are you sure you possess the stomach to hear the details of this affair? I will not censor myself nor will I refrain from sharing with you the more lurid and violent parts of this tale.”

“I may be young Master Holmes but my mind is open. I do not fear evil and certainly not when it is being retold. However, I do ask of you to refrain from discussing the affair in the same style you used to dissever my life, namely, to revel in the horror and pain and treat it as entertainment.”

I could not read his expression. I almost sensed a twinge of hurt in his guarded eyes. ‘If he can manage to say so little with such startling eyes, how will I ever be able to believe his words?’

"Twelve years ago (I was 23 at the time), on one of my infrequent visits to the neighbourhood from my travels in the continent, the local authorities approached me regarding a very unusual murder. The confusion in the case was great and the people involved very unwilling to give any evidence. I shall refrain from explaining their reasons for approaching me and will explain those circumstances at another time. The case was two-fold. It began with the murder of a very beautiful but simple minded 15 year old girl, Rebecca Tattsyrup, who was found hanging from a wooden beam in a burning barn. Her body was found to have been mutilated and it was assumed she had been forcibly taken. The horses had been released just after the fire was set.” I tried to hide my disgust. My mind could not help imagine that poor child, hanging, as the flames licked higher and the horses rushed in a panic out of the barn doors.

“The release of the horses was done in a juvenile attempt to create confusion and chaos. The guilty parties were easy enough to sniff out without my involvement for they stood nearby after the wreckage, pretending to be part of the crowd that had gathered, in curiosity, around the barn she was found in. The barn belonged to the girl’s parents, Edward and Tulip Tattsyrup (local shop owners), and they had been bidden, very cruelly, by the Deverell twins, to come and quench the fires with their tears, for the fire was in a state too far gone to do anything about by the time they were called to witness it. The twins were found hanging about stifling their grins and even seemed somewhat pleased. As I say, I was not brought in to bring the culprits of this murder to justice, for their guilt was plain enough to see, as they made no pretense in hiding it. No. The problem was compounded by the fact that the boys had escaped justice through, as it turned out, the influence of their powerful and wealthy family. No one was willing to come forward, and the evidence was circumstantial. Surely there is nothing unlawful in standing around the scene of a tragedy and seem merry at your neighbour’s misfortune. Certainly the girl had been seen in their company and she had revealed to one of her friends they had enticed her with tales of chivalry, which the girl could not resist, being, as she was, fanciful in her tastes. But even that fact was not enough to bring about any sort of conviction. The truth was hard to swallow. She had not been ravished but had given herself freely… to both boys. This she did not reveal to her friend, naturally, but it was plain to see when I looked at the physical evidence. She was a simpleton, tragic though it may seem to you to pronounce her so.” I felt my stomach turn and the bile rise. I tried to hide it during the first stages of the retelling but I could disguise it no longer.

“I was brought in when the two boys were found drowned in the nearby river. The girl’s parents were immediately suspected, to be sure, but the authorities could not, for the life of them, make out how the twins had been enticed to go with the Tattsyrups. There were no signs of a struggle; neither in their rooms nor on their bodies. Yet it was I who recognized the red rash that is a classic sign of Belladonna poisoning; in small doses, a sleeping aid, but in large quantities, a tasteless killer. On one body it would have been a coincidence. On both it was clear evidence of poisoning. I hadn’t quite worked out how they had managed to administer it to the boys, when news broke out that the Tattsyrups had managed to escape, possibly helped by the person who had aided them in the poisoning. It was only later, after the shop was searched for clues that would give some hint as to where the Tattsyrups might have gone to, that their family history came into the light. Edward and Tulip were not married legally for they were brother and sister. They had moved to the area as husband and wife but a careful study of their diaries revealed unspeakable truths. According to the earlier entries, they had another son, David. He was a monstrosity and kept in the basement; the scratch marks and chains (which were used as a sort of punishment, it appears) which were found within it, confirmed his existence. Disguised, it was he who had helped them escape the local constabulary station during the night by using brute force. At this point I was asked to withdraw my involvement in the investigation but I could not until I had found the poisoner. It did not take me long to reach the answer: By the river, further upstream from the spot where the twins had drowned, there had been found a nearly empty box of sweets. It transpired that the box contained ginger cookies which Rebecca had received from her parents and had given to the boys.” My thoughts went immediately to little Adelmar, asleep by now in his bed, full of ginger cookies. Master Holmes could see it, just as he could see everything else it would seem, and after a small pause, in which he allowed me to compose myself, he continued.

“The girl did not find it odd that her parents had given her ginger, to which she had an aversion to. An aversion that her parents were more than aware of and so ensured she would not partake in the treat herself. She also did not suspect they had laced it with Belladonna. For, as it turned out, the Tattsyrups meant to murder the boys without the initial incentive of revenge. They did not approve of the friendship they had struck with their daughter, to say the least. I suppose Evil recognizes Evil. It was just bad luck for the boys that they had been carousing by the river banks when the effects of the Belladonna (which causes death only after a long period of time in which it is being consumed, which was the Tattsyrups' original plan, by having it appear as if an illness had taken their lives), caused the boys to lose consciousness and drown, due to the soporific effects the laced treats had on them.”

I could not think of what to say. I had been left speechless, a feeling I was fast becoming accustomed to. Before I could find anything reasonable to say, Master Holmes shocked me even further by revealing a final piece of information.

“That is also how Lestrade came into my brother’s service until he passed away four years ago. Gregory was the officer who had brought me in, having known me most of my life through my brother Mycroft, and he was held the most responsible regarding the failure of the investigation, when the case ended with the escape of the Tattsyrups. My involvement was not what had made their escape possible but blame had to fall on someone. Gregory seemed to be the easiest target and so it fell on him. My brother never let me forget my ‘culpability’ as he put it. Though I can’t for the life of me understand how he could be so resentful towards me, considering how... happy, Gregory had made him.” Lestrade gave out a small cough.

‘Ask him what he _felt_.’ The words seemed to resonate.

“How did the whole abhorrent affair make you feel?”

“Annoyed.”

“Annoyed? Is that all you felt?” I could not perceive what he meant by it.

“Of course! The guilty party had fled. The case is still open and unsolved to my degree of satisfaction.”

“How… how can you only feel frustration at your… thwarted pleasure? A girl is dead. Brutally killed and made a spectacle of! Her brother living a caged existence…”

“What is that to me? Caring for them will not bring her back nor make her any less of an object of gossip and local legend and it would certainly not change her brother’s fate. I am sorry her life ended in such a horrid fashion but if you are asking me whether I care, I am afraid I would disappoint you were I to answer.”

‘Can he really feel nothing? Could he care so little, knowing what he knows?’

“I’m afraid I must excuse myself, Sir. I did not realize how late the hour had become and I have much to do tomorrow for Adelmar’s schooling.” I could not bring myself to stay in the room any further. I felt as if the walls themselves had been drenched in the evil that had reverberated off of them while Master Holmes told his tragic tale. Of course, I could not fool him with any excuse I could come up and so did not try to come up with anything better.

“Good night John.” he said, as I was halfway between him and the door.

"Good night Master Holmes."

I passed Gregory on my way out but he seemed to me somewhat subdued. Something was revealed in that room he did not wish for me to know. If I were being honest with myself, I would agree with his sentiment completely.

I made my way back to my room, numb and sick, passing, yet again, the portraits of the Holmeses, their features still reminding me of their decendant. I did not feel the least bit surprised to find that sleep eluded me and would continue to do so for quite some time. I had no one else to blame but myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made quite a few references to things outside the world of A.C. Doyle. If you have any questions I'll be more than happy to answer them.  
> As for the fictitious case, it's the best I could do. I'm not a thriller writer, nor am I very well versed in the art of deduction.  
> Hopefully the case was JUST under the level of being ridiculous.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after 7 chapters, there is some, very moderate (but certainly scandalizing by the Regency Period's standards), smut.  
> Don't get too excited though. I said it would have scandalized the likes of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, not De Sade.  
> Still, it will, hopefully, get some of your hearts to quiver slightly.

I did not see much of Master Holmes during the next few weeks. Had it not been for the heartbreaking violin music I heard during odd hours of the night and the occasional chance meeting on the staircase, I could not have been absolutely sure he was still residing within Bakersfield Hall. He was certainly busy: making constant trips into Millcote, taking long walks around the grounds (all the while making suggestions to the groundskeeper on improvements), visiting his neighbours, the Rileys, and enjoying a spot of shooting as well (with Pilot by his side), though, admittedly, the gunfire did play havoc on Mrs. Hudson's nerves. His activities were related to me by Mrs. Hudson during the evenings we spent together by the fireside, for I was rather busy with teaching Adelmar a new subject and could not follow the daily goings-on of the house. She also did me a great favour in asking permission of Master Holmes for me to use the library. He readily gave his consent, though Mrs. Hudson appeared somewhat puzzled by his decision to allow me full and constant access to the room and turn it into Adelmar’s schoolroom.

This period of absence allowed me the time to dwell on my fireside conversation with Master Holmes. The cruelty he was exposed to at such a young age, which did not seem to affect him at all; so much horror in one tale that it can scarcely be endured. To think this was one story out of many, for I perceived his talents were not called upon without there being a prequel, some test to his abilities that had been made before; a test that proved him worthy to be consulted on, regarding matters of great, dark deeds. It made me uneasy to think of what Mark would have made of such things. Would his belief, and by extension mine, be able to face such evil and look at it head on? Could I contemplate the abyss without falling into it? If I were being honest with myself, I would have to admit that a very deep part of me felt drawn to it; the malice and wickedness… the danger. Having lived until now a sheltered life; never knowing adversity of body and only of soul. I was drawn towards risk, and the purveyor of that risk had an image, a sharp face with clear eyes. I began to fear, after careful consultation of my own emotions, that perhaps death and Master Holmes had inextricably been linked in my mind. It made me doubt my attraction towards him, and made me feel even further shame at having linked him in such a way.

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The mid-night drunken racket could be heard frequently now, since the arrival of Master Holmes. Those nights appeared to coincide with the violin music playing, which appeared to soothe the inebriated man and, at the end of each piece, silence seemed to return to the house. It made me wonder again, how aware Master Holmes was to the goings on within the house and what it was that bound him to Moran so strongly, that it would make allowances for such behaviour. I could not make myself easy with so many questions left unclear but there was no one to turn to for answers, no one willing to speak or voice their opinions on the subject, unless they were people on whose opinion I could put little stock, as it was mired in gossip and half-truths.

Five weeks into Master Holmes' stay in Bakersfield Hall, I happened to stir out of my sleep for an unknown reason. After a few short minutes, during which I tried to ease myself back to sleep, I suddenly perceived a strange scraping noise, like fingernails on wood. It came from outside my bedroom door and continued on down the hallway, away from Master Holmes and Mrs. Hudson's bedrooms. I neared the door and placed my ear against it to listen as the footsteps climbed the staircase to the third floor, where Mr. Moran's room was located and there it was, as it was every night Mr. Moran lost his ability to hold his drink: a horrific laugh that was completely malicious. It sent chills up my spine and it kept going and going, getting further and further away as the person from whom it was emanating, drew further and further away.

When I was sure he was gone, I took my robe, opened the door and made my way in the opposite direction he had followed. As soon as I made a few steps past the door to Mrs. Hudson's bedroom I heard the noise, a few steps more, and I could smell the smoke, a few steps before I reached Master Holmes door I felt the heat and at last, as I passed the threshold, for his door was left open by the attacker, I was stunned by how quickly the bed had been engulfed by the flames and how smoke-filled the room had become.

I rushed to the bed and immediately set about the task of waking Master Holmes, the heat of the flames almost suffocating me. Considering the odd hours he kept, I was not surprised in the least that it took a bit of shouting, tugging and shaking, for me to get him to wake. He coughed quite heavily as he jumped out of bed but instead of following my movement and backing away from the fire, he seemed to put himself between me and the flames, pushing me towards the wardrobe and half-circling my body. My breath caught as I came in contact with his chest, his eyes searching my face, both of us panting from the lack of air in the room and the sudden fright we had experienced. I saw a flash of fear in his eyes, I was sure of it. As soon as he made certain I was safe, he walked a wide circle around the bed, to the other side of the room, where his wash basin was situated, and, to suffuse the blaze, used the water to soak a blanket and wrapped the dripping material around the four posts that held the heavy-silk canopy, which had by now been completely consumed by the flames.

After the fire had died down and the smoke slowly lifted, I found myself standing in my inadequate night attire, staring at Master Holmes whose chest was heaving just as strongly as mine. We were both suddenly aware of his near-nakedness, further pronounced by the fact that his nightshirt had opened during his nightly tossing and turning, and there appeared to be a wide sliver of pale skin dusted with fine hairs which I found hard to turn my gaze away from. I compelled myself to avert my head and waited for him to put on his slacks and redo his buttons.

"John. Are you alright?" he asked me, as he neared and stood quite dangerously close to me. I turned back towards him.

"Yes… yes, I am. Have you been hurt Master Holmes?”

“No. I am well.”

“What was that?"

"A small, accidental fire." He was deflecting my question.

"I know that was a fire, Sir. How did it start? Can you not hazard a guess?" 'Why was he so insistent on protecting this man?!? What piece of information had Moran become acquainted with, that has delivered Master Holmes into his power in such a perverse way?'

"I was foolish enough to go to bed with lit candles. They must have been placed rather dangerously close to the canopy." I turned my gaze quickly to the bedside table to check for the candlestick and, even before I had done so and found none, he immediately added "In my rush to put the fire out, I must have knocked them down and under the bed."

Before I had a chance to ask further, he guessed what would be my next question and replied to my unuttered inquiry "I was reading until quite late."

“I heard a laugh…”

“Wait here. I must check on something on the floor above and time is of the essence. Please do not leave till I return. No need to alert the rest of the house and worry anyone.”

I was left there on my own for quite a few minutes, as Master Holmes silently exited the bedchamber, leaving me not knowing what to think or do. I was tempted to check for the candlestick but, oddly enough, I felt that doing so would constitute a betrayal of Master Holmes’ confidence; proof I did not trust him. I felt I would rather give him the benefit of the doubt than show my weakness of character. By this time I realized my bare feet were planted in a cold pool of water, the very spot where Master Holmes had dumped the contents of the basin on the blanket he laid down, ruining the carpet in the process. I was on the point of leaving and risking Master Holmes’ displeasure, having grown weary of the solitude, when Master Holmes returned to me, just as quietly as he had left.

“Everything is as it should be once again. I do apologize. I believe you were on the point of saying something just before I departed. You mentioned a laugh. A laugh you have heard before this night I take.”

“Yes. It belongs to Mr. Moran who is apparently the Under Butler; a singular person.”

“Yes, I could not agree more. He is ‘singular’. Well, I shall reflect on the subject further. Meantime I am glad you were the one to find me. You are not a talker and will keep the details to yourself. I shall sleep in the library on one of the sofas. It will do me quite nicely. Return to your own room, John. The servants will be up in two hours and Sally will be in here first thing to light the fireplace before I wake. I cannot help the shock she will receive when she sees the state of the bed but I guess that cannot be helped at this point.”

I could not argue against that, nor did I think it prudent. A man of his immense brilliance could not be so mistaken, so perhaps I was. At any rate, I was quite decided to leave for my bedroom before the shock impelled me to reveal myself further to this man, as I did before when I questioned him about the fire; a man who seemed to see everything within a slight hitch in one's breath, to an errand movement of a person's eyes, was not a man who’s vicinity you could consider as a safe place to hold secrets in.

“Good night, then, Sir.” But as I turned away from him to leave he held me in place by my arms.

"What, John? Is that all?”

“You said I may go now.”

“Not in that dry, unfeeling fashion. You have just saved my life. Do not turn away from me so easily. Do not keep passing me by as if we were strangers. Let us at least shake hands." He held out his hand and I gave him mine.

“To owe my life to anyone else would have been a burden, but not to you.”

"I only did as anyone would have done."

"Do you really believe so, John, after what I told you? Do you really think so highly of humanity?" He seemed almost exasperated as he said this.

"The darkness, such as you described, makes the light shine that much brighter. You may not think much of people but I would have hoped you would think more of me. Would you have expected me to walk back to my bedchamber after witnessing the danger you were in? Hear your screams as the fire consumed you?” at this I swallowed hard, for the thought was horrifying to me. “We are not strangers, Sir. If we were, you would wonder as to what I am doing in your rooms at such an hour." He smiled at this, though I did not intend it as a joke.

"The world is cracked and broken, John."

"Anything that has goodness in it has cracks. It is the only way for light to come through and seep in. Good night, Master Holmes."

"Good night, 'Little Priest'."

I tried to wait until I reached my room before I let the smile fully form on my face. I felt exhilarated; the surge of emotions, his powerful stare and the contact I made with his body as he pressed it against me. But the excitement did not last long, and soon faltered. 'He did not do anything out of the ordinary considering the situation, you fanciful child. What did you think would happen? Would you imagine him claiming your lips in a surge of passion, brought about by the gravity of the situation? Of him deluding himself long enough to see you as a worthy mate and for him to rejoice in the inferiority of your birth? Go to bed ‘Little Priest’ and dream a different dream.'

I was disheartened. Plain and truer words there never were. I shall have to be careful how I behave near the Master if our paths cross again. I could not trust myself to keep these emotions from him.

It was only in the morning, when I was woken by Sally’s scream, and I ran to her to explain what had transpired during the night (or rather the version that Master Holmes would approve of), that I noticed, as I made my way back to my room, five etched paths, like silk ribbons, on the doors and wooden paneling, leading from Master Holmes’ room to mine, passing through Mrs. Hudson’s door. Etched on the wood itself, and made, I did not doubt, by fingernails.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

The following day Master Holmes ventured to the town again and was not expected to be seen till the evening. It was Adelmar’s day away from his schooling, and so I took the opportunity to check on Mr. Moran. Despite my certainty that Master Holmes would not have approved of my inquiries, I could not refrain from my desire to protect him.

Seemingly by coincidence, Mr. Moran made one of his rare ventures out of his room and was sat in a room near the kitchens, with Sally and Mrs. Hudson, who were seeing, yet again, to the linen rotation (an obsession with Mrs. Hudson), while he was tending to the house silver. It seemed Mr. Moran was not part of the conversation the two ladies were having, but appeared to be enjoying their dialogue as he worked. He was wearing work gloves to protect him from the chemicals he was using to polish the silver, so I could not get a glimpse at his fingernails to see whether they had any telling evidence on them, of the damage that had been done to the hallway’s wooden panels and doors.

Sally smiled warmly as I entered and greeted me kindly, as did Mrs. Hudson when she heard Sally do so. Mr. Moran only lifted his gaze and gave a curt nod in acknowledgement. After the morning pleasantries were out of the way, I rather boldly asked:

“I was just wondering Mrs. Hudson if you heard anything last night?”

“No. What do you mean Mr. Watson?” answered Mrs. Hudson.

“I was just wondering, what with that terrible accident,” I quickly flashed my eyes towards Mr. Moran to see whether he exhibited any uneasiness, but he seemed consumed by his work.

“Oh, yes. Isn’t it dreadful?! It’s not the first small fire we have experienced but…”

“What?!” I interrupted Mrs. Hudson in my surprise. She seemed perturbed for some reason but it did not seem to stem from my interruption. After, she took a few seconds to continue, as if weighing her answer carefully.

“Well… well they had never come so close in becoming life threatening and have always been put out in time before any real damage was made. I do keep telling everyone in the household to be more careful with their candles and to make sure hearths are well looked after and properly put out. This house may look like battlements from the outside but it is still capable of being set ablaze.”

“So you believe it to have been a simple accident?”

“But of course, my dear. What else could it have been?” as she said this, she seemed to be looking over my shoulder, so I turned back towards the door but only saw Molly with the knife drawer, taking them to the large kitchen table, to be counted.

“I see. And you Sally? I know you stay in the coachman’s lodge with your husband Sylvester, so obviously you would not have been able to perceive anything during the night, but even so: did you notice anything strange last night before you left?

“I’m sorry Sir, but other than the distant violin playing, and the terrible shock I received just after going into that room, I could tell you of anything worth noting.”

“Yes, I see. What about you Mr. Moran?”

“I’m sorry?” he seemed to be woken out of a reverie.

“I was asking whether you had heard anything unusual during the night. The master’s bed had been… was set ablaze.” I left the sentence there before adding, “By a candle left too close to his canopied bed. Did you hear anything shortly before?”

“No. I was sound asleep. What was it I was supposed to have heard? A falling candle a floor beneath me?” he chuckled. I was amazed at his bold-faced impudence. ‘Had he no qualms whatsoever in attempting to murder his employer? A man who, as far as I knew, had done him no wrong.’

I could not think of what else to ask without drawing attention to what I was truly trying to discover and, feeling I had already revealed far too much, I left the matter there. I made my way back to Master Holmes’ room and stood within it for quite some time. It was not proper for me to trespass within it in such a way, and while he was away no less. But I could not help it. Part of me was thinking of the fire and the fear I felt at the time, fear for his safety. The other part, the part that was thinking of the exhilaration, the panting body, the flash of fear that passed his face, a face which seemed unaccustomed to the emotion… I had to silence.

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It was another fortnight before I met with Master Homes again. It was late in the evening and he asked me to join him outside on chairs he had placed there so he could enjoy the evening. He was drinking brandy and smoking a cigar, while I sipped on a cup of tea Sally had been kind enough to prepare for me. He kept silent for a while until at last, he put his drink down on a small table placed near him, leaned over and asked:

"You are ignorant of what had transpired to bring Adelmar under my guardianship, are you not?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like to know?"

"Only if you are willing to satisfy my curiosity, for it is none of my concern unless you wish me to know of it."

"Why would I not? I told you before. I have nothing I would wish to hide from you."

No. 'I have nothing I would wish to hide'. That is what he had said, and despite my brief acquaintance with the gentleman, I am sure he remembers what he said and, furthermore, he knew that I remember it as well. At length, I finally gathered the courage and candidly asked:

"Are you really the child's father?"

"His mother assured me I was before she passed but I doubt it very much. You must have noticed by now how the child does not resemble me in the slightest, nor does he resemble any other Holmes in the ghastly portraits standing guard in every corner of this house. Where there are Holmesian angles on the faces of me and mine, there is supple and plump, cherub-like curves on his face. No. The child is not mine. Pilot is more like me than he.” I could not suppress a grin at that statement and he seemed to smile right back, enjoying his accidentally humourous remark.

“I took him from her death bed (in a manner of speaking, for it was all done by letters), out of pity for the little thing. His mother, Irene Adler, was an opera singer; beautiful to a point of blinding on-looking admirers, passionate and almost wild. Since I was none of these things, her reassurances of the great regard she felt towards my heart (for I was quite convinced, at this point in my life, I had none), filled me with a great passion towards her own. So much so, I had her installed in a Parisian hotel with a full retinue of servants and kept her in the luxury typical of an odalisque. And so began my road to emotional self-destruction. I may pride myself in being an original thinker but I was not on this occasion. I had set myself down the path all men take at one point or another. She was not faithful, if I may put it honestly.” I wondered how he could have been deceived by anyone, especially after seeing what he is capable of.

“You find it strange I was deceived by anyone, do you not? You have hit upon the nail, my dear Watson. It was a harsh lesson to learn but I learnt it none the less, and at 26 years of age no less. I should be thankful to her for she had spared me many more years of being plagued by the same stupidity that blinds the rest of humanity.”

“What on earth do you mean, Sir?”

“It does not matter. I was hard as stone before I met her, but when I left her, I was a polished diamond.” He did not seem to want to elaborate further.

“I came to call on her one warm evening and was surprised to find her apartments empty. I stepped out into the balcony to cool off and perhaps have a chance at surprising her when she came in. The balcony afforded me a clear view of the street and, straight below, the entrance to the hotel. After some time waiting I saw her step out of a carriage with a young aristocratic looking gentleman.” After a small pause, he asked: “Have you ever felt jealousy, John?”

“No. I can’t say I ever have.” Though, that is a lie, of course, for I was starting to feel a small twinge in my stomach, which I would swear was that very passion.

“I was unwilling to reach the same conclusion anyone else would have arrived at, and waited with bated breath for her to make her way to the room.” I suddenly became alarmed at how this story would end but could not bring myself to stop him. “She entered the parlour with the young gentleman behind her and they sat comfortably on a small settee that had its back to the balcony. However, even with the curtains drawn, for I had closed them behind me as soon as I made the decision to surprise my paramour, I could still spy on them through the tiny chink I had left between the drapery, and I could see how close they sat together. I recognized the young man as a brainless and vicious young noble, the Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, whom I had met socially but never gave much attention to. I felt sick to my stomach for having been deceived by this woman, just for the purpose of procuring the affections of this man of all people. It sickened me to think that, in courting her as I did, she had, in some twisted way, brought me down to his level. It was at this point I emerged from the balcony and walked in upon them. I liberated Irene from my protection; gave her notice to vacate her hotel; offered her a purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions, and made an appointment with the Grand Duke for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne. Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him and left a bullet in one of his poor arms, feeble as the wing of a heron, and then thought I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily, Adler, six months before, had given me this child Adelmar, who, she affirmed, was my son, though, as I have said, is very unlikely to be. I left them destitute and walked away from the whole sorry business. It was not till years afterwards, when I learned of Irene’s impending demise, I took pity on the child, who did not deserve to live a life of depravity because his mother made the wrong choices. I took the poor thing out of the mud and slime of the metropolises of Europe, and transplanted him here to be turned into a young gentleman.” I became quiet and conflicted. I could not decide whether this man was completely void of all human emotion, or a paragon of compassion.

“John. Being a priest and knowing now, the sinful origins of the child, would you have me look for another tutor for the boy?”

“No. Adelmar is not answerable for either his mother’s faults or yours. I have a regard for him, and now that I know he is, in a sense, parentless. Forsaken by his mother and disowned by you, I shall cling closer to him than before. How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate his tutor as a nuisance, to a lonely little orphan, who leans towards him as a friend?”

“Is that truly how you see the matter?” He sounded almost surprised.

“Indeed I do, Sir.” As he did before, when I breeched the subject of my suspicions regarding Mr. Moran’s involvement in the attack that was perpetrated on him, he quicly changed the subject without further comment by turning and simply saying:

“We must go in now. It’s getting to be late and rather cold.”

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I spent the night going over his self-deprecating words, sleep eluding me yet again after spending time with Master Holmes. I had to admit to myself that he was quite right and his story lacked any originality in its specifics. Surely, a cheated lover of a Parisian opera singer, or dancer, or actress, was not an uncommon tale for people in his society. And yet, the story does have small details that would give it some distinction: Adelmar, for one.

To be sure, there are enough unwanted children that spring from such unions but few tend to be embraced by their fathers, and even less by men who have no connection to the child.

The question arose yet again: He either feels nothing at all (or more accurately, has divorced himself from feeling; for they are still there just separated from his psyche), or he feels everything but hides it whenever possible. He is either the perfect image of a stoic, or a man of unimaginable compassion. I was left to ponder on where the truth lay, when I suddenly realized what it was Miss Adler had taught him. It was so simple. Sentiment blinded his incredible gift. He prizes his brilliance above anything else; his keen intellect and the eyes that see it all. He felt he could not give up one to get the other and when the question arose at the end of the affair, he chose what made him unique above what made him like everyone else.

‘How could such a man be touched? How could anyone procure his mind AND body? Does a person, who truly loves him, have the right to try and change his perspective on sentiment?’

It was then that I heard it: the laughter; the bone-chilling, mirthless laughter. It was passing by outside my room, in the same direction he had taken the night of the fire. Oddly enough, however, there was no wailing and crying; just the laugh. I decided it was time to get to the bottom of matters in Bakersfield Hall, even at the risk of confronting a disoriented Moran. I put on my slacks, waited for the sound of laughter to pass by, and after a length of time, which would have allowed Moran to gain enough distance from my door and put him out of earshot of the sound of my door opening, I stepped outside and tried to see down the hallway towards the staircase he must have taken.

A thought thundered through my mind: ‘What if Moran has been up to his old tricks? What if my master is yet again in his bed with the flames slowly ravishing his body till it is too late to save him?’

Before giving any more thought to the matter, I ran as fast as I could towards my master’s bedchamber and, after a moment of hesitation, standing outside, I opened the door slowly and silently. There was no danger within. He was not even occupying it, and was probably in his library. I let out the breath I had been holding on to from the moment I began to run, and shut the door behind me. I ran as fast as I could to the third floor before I had a chance of losing Moran and missing the direction in which he was going. I had a shrewd idea he was making his way towards his room, disappointed after finding out he was cheated out of his mischief-making, by the absent Master Holmes. I looked down the unlit hallway from one end to the other, for I was standing in the middle of it, and heard a door close. I ran down the hall to where I could perceive some light coming from the bottom of a door and, true to my suspicions, the door led to Moran’s room. After a small, hesitant moment, I opened it, finding the room brightly lit, but devoid of people. It was a strange room, unusually shaped (to form a hexagon) and oddly furnished, seeming empty and cluttered at the same time. By the shape of the room I realized it was situated in the tower that gave Bakersfield Hall its distinct look of battlements. It was no longer usable and the stairway connecting the different levels long gone by now.

There were tapestries running along its walls, no bed but a sofa in the middle of the chamber, and, by the window, to the right of the door, there was a strangely carved wardrobe, almost malevolently engraved, which I was, at this point, too scared to open. I kept silent, and then slowly, I perceived it: a quietly panting breath.

It was coming from behind the tapestry, situated directly across the room from the doorway, where I was standing. I took slow steps, as if I was frightened to scare a critter away. I stood and then drew the drape aside in a quick movement to find… there was nothing behind it; not Moran, certainly, but no one else either. And yet, there was a distinct sound of breathing. I stepped behind the drape and was shrouded in darkness by the heavy brocade, which dropped behind me and gently hit my back. I inched closer and closer towards the wooden panel, which was situated just a few inches from me, but which I perceived to be further away, the fear distorting my discernment of the distance. The tapestry, it would seem, was hung from the ceiling and not from the top of the wall; the effect created was of a tight corridor which encircled the whole of the room, from the drape pressed against the wall by the door, to the one ending by the window, giving a false perception of the chamber’s size. With my heartbeat almost drowning any other sound I could perceive at the moment, I pressed my ear against the wood and waited.

The voice said only one word, in a pleased, breathy tone: “Everyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violin music I had in mind as I was writing this chapter, was coming from the track "The Gravel Road" and "I Cannot See His Colour" from 'The Village' OST. You can download it if you want to hear what I heard.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologize for the quality in writing of this chapter. I have to admit that 12-hour shifts, five days a week, 7 working days every week, for the last month and a half, have somewhat destroyed my free time, as in, there is none. I wrote almost ALL of the words in this chapter at work, when I was supposed to be doing my job. And yes, I am aware that John is somewhat in the "female role" of this story but you must remember that this is a sensitive, 18 y/o boy turning into a man. He is very much finding his masculinity and defining himself as a man little by little. There was nothing feminine in his chasing of Moran through the corridors. Just please trust my writing, even though I barely trust it myself.
> 
> ***EDIT 22/2/16***
> 
> I've reread my incredibly stupid note today and must correct my ignorant remarks (though I'm not editing it since that would be dishonest).  
> Not making excuses but why I was referring to when I wrote "Feminine", was Delicate. That he may have come off Delicate. Being Feminine does not mean you can't be brave, as Jane herself proves quite clearly in the original story(!). Chalk it up to me being a dumbass.

"Are you alright, dear?" I was drawn from my reverie back to the kitchen, pulled out of my recollection of last night's happenings.

 

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Quite alright, thank you." I replied after a moment, as I set down my cup into its saucer with a satisfying clink.

 

I was perplexed, even mortified, and could not focus on the conversation I was having with the dear woman, over our afternoon tea. The topic of which, as it happened, was the Rileys: Master Holmes' neighbours and friends; the eldest daughter being, in particular, more than a mere acquaintance. The matter was raised by Master Holmes' sudden departure from Bakersfield Hall that very morning, to visit and stay with them in order to enjoy a spot of shooting. His departure stung all the more for me, not only because I felt responsible for having driven him away by my confrontational behavior the night before, but also because of the rumors that Miss Riley has long been thought to be Master Holmes' intended, 'though he is somewhat older', as is the custom to say whenever the subject is discussed.

 

Though I could feel the sting of jealousy twisting slowly like a spindle's needle, the more I heard about the young lady's accomplishments, I say, even that discomfort could not take my mind off of the breathy, satisfied voice…

 

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"Everyone!"

 

"John..?"

 

I was startled out of my wits by the voice coming from the other side of the room. I stumbled back through the drapes, awkwardly, turned back quickly and found myself staring at Master Holmes standing in the doorway, violin and bow in his right hand, the dark corridor behind him. I can't think why but for some reason I backed up and pressed into the material at my back.

 

"Sherlock… Master Holmes… I…"

 

"What are you doing here? How have you come about this room?" He did not seem angry, just curious.

 

"Aaaaah-I was awoken, a… as before, by the sound of laughter. The person laughing was making his way to the stairway from the direction of your room, and so I ran to your chambers to make sure you were safe. Once I realized you were not to be found there, I followed the voice here. However, I seem to have been mistaken. There is no one here but me… and yet… and yet…" I did not know whether I should finish that thought, for fear of being seen as a fantasist, but as always, Master Holmes finished it for me.

 

"There was a voice present in the room; a whisper."

 

"Yes. Yes, what was it, Sir? Where did it come from? It was not a healthy voice. It sounded… wrong."

 

"Voices travel in these old walls." He replied, stroking the wooden doorframe with his free hand. He became pensive for a short while and continued, "Rock and wood are no barriers for our secrets. However, there is no mystery here, John. It most likely traveled to this chamber from the kitchens. I suspect Gregory has gone down to the pantry to…" and at this he smiled to himself, bemused "'Taste' some of Mrs. Hudson's conserves. We won't be having raspberry in the morning, to be sure." He smiled.

 

"I'm sorry, Sir, but that did not sound like Lestrade. I think… I think it might have been Moran again."

 

"Moran?" He turned his gaze from the doorframe, where he had placed his hand, "Why do you think it was him? Do you see him in this room?"

 

"No, but…"

 

"If it is him, call for him. Go ahead."

 

He wasn't angry. He even seemed somewhat amused. It was infuriating; like a joke I was not fortunate enough to be let into.

 

"The Devil is inside these walls!" I cried, indignantly, my voice echoing back at me. "I am a man of reason but I am also a man of God. If this is not man-made, what is it then? What could possibly be haunting these halls? There are strange sounds; mysterious and malicious fires; voices that are not there and are only soothed by YOUR violin music!" my anger reverberated within the tower and made me aware that much more of how easily my raised voice could alert other people within the house. I tried to compose myself, for I did not wish to alarm anyone, especially not Adelmar, scaring the poor child and make him feel, in any way, uncomfortable in his new home. I also began to sense that this was not a good course to take with Master Holmes, for it seemed to me he was the kind of man who would abhor any suggestion of the supernatural as an explanation to the goings on in Bakersfield Hall. And besides, I did not truly believe there was anything demonic in it, but my anger at being ridiculed had drawn me out. His face was unreadable, as always, and so I was not sure whether I had given offence. I decided to be honest, and perhaps reach his heart, though he claimed to have very little of.

 

"I'm sorry, Sir." I was still standing with my back pressed against the drapes and felt ashamed to have backed away from a man I trusted and admired. I started to near him slowly until I was boldly standing in the doorway, near enough to hear his breath. I did not dare look him in the eyes for fear of what I would see in them. Though, certainly, he was a man with enough control to disguise any telling emotion from his countenance. And so I lowered my head down and to the side, to stare at the spot his hand had rested on, as the words slowly made their way out of me. Even so, all I could manage was a whisper.

 

"I am afraid, Sir. I am afraid for you. I do not believe it is The Devil that drives my fear, despite my outburst. It is, indeed, something very human. Something I feel you are protecting for unknown reasons. Please, I beg of you, let him go." I raised my eyes slowly so he could see I was in earnest, but to my horror, all I could see was disgust, disgust he was not even making the slightest effort in hiding. He backed away from me, turned in the direction of the staircase and vanished from my sight in slow but determined strides.

 

For the first time since Mark's death, I wept. I wept quietly and not for long, as I made my way to my room, but I did weep. I stifled the sounds with my hand, so as not to be heard. I made up my mind not to raise the subject again. 'I cannot save him from something he does not wish to be saved from.' The next morning, I was informed by the cheerful Mrs. Hudson, that he had left and would not return any time soon.

 

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"But she truly is a lovely young woman; very well favoured amongst her acquaintances. Of course, there was that awful business with her family's estate a few years back." And at this, she lowered her voice, "Ugly rumors about a dreadful second cousin, poised to inherit because the family had had but one son and he unfortunately died as an infant two decades back. Thankfully, the Rileys had Matthew, their youngest, who came after the two young ladies, the eldest being Catherine."

 

As I later learned, from the delightfully gossipy Mrs. Hudson, Matthew was now poised to inherit, though he was only 11 years of age. This meant the estate would pass to his hands, after Master Riley's death, and so the family's main preoccupation turned towards marrying the two daughters to suitable young men. 'Suitable', in polite society, meant moneyed. The second cousin, who was to inherit, must have been very unsuitable indeed, if there was no attempt to marry Catherine (or Kitty as she was affectionately called by her friends and relations), to him, and so keep the estate intact by that means.

 

Opinions on the young lady were very openly given to me by the members of the household, as I was the, relatively, new arrival at the house. It all consisted of glowing recommendations about her countenance and beauty, but very little about her temper and manner, her intelligence and kindness or lack thereof. I was at once reminded of Miss Georgiana and the manner in which she was always described and admired. The association between the two ladies turned my stomach at once and it was immediately followed by the image of him marrying her. 'Could he not see her as he sees everything else? Could he be blinded by beauty like an ordinary man? Is he not the most extraordinarily perceptive person you have ever met within your, admittedly, very limited scope of acquaintances? Have some faith that he will not marry in haste. Just hope that the future lady of the house will bear your presence and make no attempt to persuade Master Holmes to let you go of his service.'

 

There was also this about the young lady: though Catherine was the subject of everyone's good opinion, and even admiration, they would always somewhat spoil the recommendation by mentioning how the difference in social and economic standing, made their union somewhat farfetched. For though the Rileys were wealthy enough, Catherine had no money of her own, the bulk of the estate passing to her brother Matthew and leaving her in need of a very 'suitable' gentleman to make up for the meager part she would be bringing into the union. And though Master Holmes had an Earldom, passed down to him on his elder brother's passing, the Rileys were part of the landed gentry and had no social standing in the court of St. James. In fact, some members of the household theorized that the reason the betrothal had not taken place thus far, was due to indecisiveness on Master Holmes' part while trying to reconcile between the differences in their positions. It was difficult for me to take this view on things or imagine finding any indecisiveness within Master Holmes, and could not come to a conclusion as to what could have held him back from making a decision on the matter, other than, perhaps, a deficiency within the lady's character that he could see but had passed unnoticed by the people who recommend her so highly.

 

"How long do you think he will stay with the Rileys?" I finally asked after a long silence.

 

"Oh, who knows?" she answered, with a satisfied smile, "When men and women of leisure meet there is much merriment to be had and many distractions to partake in." So, it appears my chance to apologize for my behavior would have to wait for quite some time.

 

"Are you sure you are quite alright, John? Something seems to have been troubling you ever since the night of the fire."

 

"Oh, it is nothing to concern you about. Just some misplaced anxiety." I reassured her with a smile, "It will pass."

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

And so, my entire focus turned to Adelmar, during Master Holmes' absence. The house seemed emptier without him and I feared my desire to remain in one spot would wane as it did before, when Michael and Henry departed from Lowood.

 

Because Spring was fast approaching, I decided it would be the perfect time to put more effort into Adelmar's agricultural studies. He seemed to enjoy these most, even though the more practical part of his studies would have to wait several months, when the ground would no longer be frozen solid. 'I doubt I shall have the heart to plant poppies this time.'

 

Besides Adelmar's schooling, I found I was spending more and more time with Lestrade and, during that time, he revealed to me some of the history pertaining to what had brought him and Master Holmes (or rather Sherlock, as I was beginning to call him to myself) together, and how he had built up some of his reputation as a consultant on criminal cases. He would not reveal much but he did mention the case that had brought Sherlock to his attention. Oddly enough, it was the elder Holmes that had been the link between them, during Sherlock’s days of higher education. Gregory was never very willing to discuss the elder Holmes and this time was no exception, and so, I remained in the dark about the particulars of his acquaintance with **him** , though I could make out enough by conjecture, to speculate on the nature of their connexion. The case was as follows:

 

At that time, of which I speak, there was in London an unusual string of infants’ deaths. The murders were brutal and ghastly, the details of which were not relayed even to the fathers of the murdered children, and many young officers had to excuse themselves from service; from the investigation in particular and from the profession entirely in a few unfortunate cases.

 

During those days, when Sherlock was no more than 20 years of age, he was dabbling with certain substances of a dubious nature (the specifics never related to me by Gregory), the use of which by him would have been somewhat detrimental to the family name, had it been made known to his friends and relations, though it did not appear to affect his schooling and social behaviour in any way and, on the contrary, he seemed to excel at anything he decided to study. There was also some hinting at a great tragic occurrence that had loomed over his life, but there was no information to follow on, and Gregory was even more unwilling to discuss it than any other detail of the affair, so I let the matter rest. Apparently, the Elder Holmes thought the proffered opportunity would be to Sherlock’s great advantage and would supply him with a valid distraction for his mind. After the elder Holmes made the introductions, the younger sibling set to work on the case and met with the persons of interest under the watchful eye of Lestrade. It took him 2 days' worth of brief interviews with the people thought to be involved in some way with the case, not all of them suspected of the horrible crimes, to reach a satisfying conclusion and, as it happens, the person implicated with the murders was someone the police had consulted with, regarding the medical aspects of the case, and not a suspect at all. As it transpired, the doctor who was consulting for the authorities had eagerly volunteered without prompting, the chance to revel in his handiwork and tamper with the evidence in some way, had proved to be too large a temptation for him. Even so, all who were involved in the investigation of the case agreed, some more willingly than others, that had it not been for Sherlock’s involvement, the case would have drawn on until a mistake had been made by the monster.

 

The decisive clue, as it happened, which had made up Sherlock’s mind that he had the right man, had to do with the man's fingernails. It seems Sherlock was not, at that time of his 'career', the storyteller he was now. He did not elaborate on his findings, beyond what was necessary for the authorities to convict and hang the man. Lestrade explained to me that Sherlock had noticed the man had meticulously clean fingernails, which for a surgeon would be an understandable trait because of the incessant scrubbing out of blood from underneath them. However, this medical practitioner had no reason to come in contact with blood as part of his professional day to day dealings, as he was mostly a "coughs and sneezes" man, as Lestrade put it. And yet, though slovenly in every other aspect of his appearance, he kept perfectly polished and clean nails. A few more hours Sherlock spent delving into the man's habits and mind, and he had the case well prepared against him.

 

I was astonished. Through Lestrade's somewhat emaciated, but certainly riveting, account, I could envision the young Sherlock: less confident (if that could be imagined), morose, maybe even angry at the circumstances which had led to the tragedy; the tragedy that had turned him to the experimentations in the substances which had worried his elder brother so. I felt a connection far stronger to that Sherlock; a man that, perhaps felt. 'Felt more than he does now. Perhaps he is still there. Perhaps he could be touched after all.'

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

In less than a fortnight, Sherlock returned to Bakersfield Hall with the friendly party. I was baffled by this news, since I had been assured Master Holmes would be away for a much longer time and might not even come back after his visit with the Rileys, but rather continue on with his pleasures and take them to the continent, as he usually did whenever he came to stay at the house and grew tired of it. 'Could this signify his permanent return to Bakersfield Hall? With her?'

 

The household was told a week in advance about the merry gathering, so we may properly prepare ourselves and the house. Temporary staff was hired from Millcote; extra cooks to help Molly, chamber maids, scullery maids, waiting staff and, oddly enough, a violinist, to provide music for dancing.

 

Along with the Rileys (Mr. and Mrs. Riley, Kitty, the younger daughter Eleanor, and young Mathew), came a few more guests and made up quite an imposing party: Sir Jeffrey Patterson, business partner and friend of Master Riley. He seemed somewhat restless throughout his stay, for some unknown reason that may have had something to do with his wife's absence.

 

There was also Miss Wenceslas, who was a longtime friend of the eldest Miss Riley, who was close to her age. She appeared foreign; her features angular and sharp, giving interesting contours to her face. She was fidgety and proud, very elegantly dressed.

 

Lastly, there was Constance Prince and her brother Kenneth Prince, distant relations to the Rileys. There seemed to be a certain loving animosity between the two; a sweet and bitter back-and-forth of backhanded compliments.

 

I shall not bore you with the daily goings on during their stay in Bakersfield Hall, which I found to be a very tedious practice in pageantry and was interspersed with feathery displays of wealth and social position:- the women, looking like overstuffed and colourful peacocks; the men, no better than well-groomed but useless horses. Instead, I will focus on the pertinent events to this story, just as I did before regarding my stay within Lowood's walls, though the reasons for my brevity in this occasion are rather different.

 

Mrs. Hudson had informed me on the day of their arrival that Master Holmes insisted on my presence during the festivities, and so I returned to the drab suit that was handed down to me, the suit that had revealed so much of me to Sherlock. I sat to the side, in one of the great halls' large and comfortable window seats, as I listened to the dull conversations and meaningless exchanges between the Lords and Ladies.

 

I did not feel as one of the party. Because of differences in rank I did not feel confident enough to approach anyone and strike up a conversation, nor was I inclined in any way to join in theirs', which consisted, for the most part, of gossip and daily grievances typical to the spoiled and wealthy. Grievances which revealed how much of the Reeds there was to be found in all of them; far too much for me to feel comfortable in their company. Kitty's treatment of Adelmar stung me that much more and made my dislike towards her burn that much stronger. She would not even acknowledge Adelmar's presence any further than noticing he was in the room, though the child was very eager to strike up a simple conversation with her, in his child-like manner. I wondered what kind of foster mother she would make for him. I wasn't aware of how much the company knew about the child's origins, feeling somewhat jealous of Sherlock's confidence in me, that lead him to share the tale of his connection with Mademoiselle Adler. I didn't expect any of them to know more than Mrs. Hudson did on the day of my arrival, and I felt a strange sort of pride to have been entrusted with the information.

 

Ugly words filtered through, from time to time, to where Adelmar and I were sitting; 'boarding school' was one. So did the word 'tutor', which turned to the subject of governesses and tutors, their uselessness within a household, how horrid Kitty and Eleanor's had been, and how often they had to dismiss them when the girls demanded it. I did not dare to interpose or try to reason with them about how unsuitable it is for a child to dictate who educates them, nor did I try to make them see how horrid it is for a person such as me, who has no friends, perhaps no relatives, no one to speak up for them, to be dismissed on a child's whim. I felt hurt and somewhat sick. I could not understand it in the least. Why would Sherlock deem these people as worthy companions to spend his time with? Indeed, he did not engage them much in conversation. Satisfied to look around him and stare at Miss Riley for long periods of time. I did catch him once or twice, looking in my direction, but what he was trying to decipher from his occasional glances, I could not tell.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

On the third night I had to excuse myself to bed earlier than usual. The cause of my departure did not escape Sherlock's notice of course, though, thankfully, it did escape the notice of the rest of the party.

 

What happened was that, after dinner, Sherlock suggested dancing as an amusement and, naturally, his chosen partner was Miss Riley, but then he proposed something quite odd; that I joined in their quartet, with the younger Miss Riley making a fourth. Needless to say, I objected and made an avid pronouncement of my unsuitability for the amusement. I had not danced in quite a while and did not feel confident enough to dance with a young lady so above my station, and in the company of so many strangers. Lestrade was standing by the door, and, though never malicious, I could imagine his friendly sniggering at my blunders. Mrs. Hudson was also there, sitting with Adelmar by the hearth as she knitted, and the child was engaged in childish conversation with her, which she was happy to encourage.

 

Instead, I offered to accompany the violin with the piano, but Sherlock insisted. I chanced a glance at Catherine, and saw she was displeased, though I could not make out why.

 

Mister and Mrs. Riley made a foursome with the Princes, while Miss Wenceslas and Sir Jeffrey stayed seated.

 

"Do not be so modest. I am sure you are quite light on your feet, John. Come now. Impress us all with your dancing abilities. Stand here." What could I do? I stood and waited for the music to start. The younger Miss Riley was very courteous and quite accomplished; as was Catherine. But I have to admit, it was Sherlock that truly left a mark on me.

 

As we moved, the dance called for us to hold hands as we switched positions; we rubbed shoulders and backs as we crossed each other during the dance; his head turned towards me rather than Catherine after the crossing; his hands lingered on my hands longer than it was called for; his eyes lingered on my eyes... We moved seamlessly and the attention he gave me went unnoticed by all, though I do believe Catherine's smile faltered after a time. It proved to be too much for me, and by the end, I was too flustered not to raise suspicion and so had to excuse myself from the rest of the evening's entertainments.

 

When I had put enough distance between me and the great hall, I began to run, trying to outrun my own shameful thoughts.

 

'He was toying with you. Why must he see so much? Why must he see me?... Stop it! You are not some willowy, virginal young girl. You are a man. Act like one. He will choose who he chooses and if they are not to your liking, you will do as you have always done. You will take care of yourself. You will advertise again and forget him.'

 

And so I was resolved: I will move on when the need arises, and I will move on from him, from Bakersfield, from Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Gregory and the Andersons… from Adelmar… It was settled. I would not think of him in that fashion again as long as I can avoid doing so.

 

And then James Moriarty came to call on Master Holmes at Bakersfield Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are not, I repeat, NOT as they appear.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've finally done it. After the brutal work schedule I kept this past month, my body petered out on me and brought my immune system down to non existent levels, and so I caught a flu. A fancy flu which consisted of stuffed orifices, sore throat, even muscle and joint pain. But my paycheck's loss is your gain, or maybe loss, depending on whether you're enjoying this story... then again, if you're not, then what the heck are you doing reading it..? Hm, I may be having some reduced mental capacities... which may be seen as a disparagement of this chapter's quality.  
> Anyways, enjoy. Or don't. It's a free world :P

At the start of the second week into their stay, and five days since I took my leave from the party altogether, after the night I had danced with Sherlock and made my resolve (feigning sickness throughout that time), there was a sudden visitor at Bakersfield Hall: a young man, not much older than 25 years of age, named James Moriarty. Mrs. Hudson caught me on my way to the great hall, for I wished to finally come out of hiding, as the saying goes, since I knew that Sherlock would be away on business for most of the day, in Millcote, and since I felt I could not avoid the company any longer without seeming rude, at least towards Master Holmes, since it was obvious he knew there was not a thing wrong with my health.

I was making my way inside through the kitchens, after having taken my morning walk, when the housekeeper, plainly distressed, took me aside and told me:

“There’s a young man here for Master Holmes. He claims to come from Spanish Town, Jamaica. It seems likely that he comes from such a warm place, for he won’t take his coat off, even when standing by the fire, and he does seem to speak in a very unusual accent. He says he will not leave unless he is permitted to speak to Master Holmes. When I told him he won’t be back any time soon, he told me very politely, but firmly, that he is willing to wait until he comes back from whatever it is that keeps him away from home. He seems fidgety and not quite all there, as if his mind is always busy with another task, or maybe, and I don’t wish to pass so harsh a judgment on a young man I have just met, perhaps his mind is not busy at all, if you know what I mean. What do you suggest we do?”

I saw no harm in having the young man join us in the great hall, as long as he kept to himself, which from what Mrs. Hudson was telling me he was very likely to do, as he seemed to be unwilling to reveal too much about his business with Sherlock.

“Are you sure?” said she, not quite secure in the idea of letting a man they were, none of them, acquainted with, to join the rest of the party.

“Yes. I am sure it will be quite alright. Did you alert Lestrade? We don’t want him to think the young man is an intruder.”

“Oh, Lestrade already knows the Gentleman. He seemed to be perturbed by his presence, and even spoke rather curtly towards Mr. Moriarty, but there were no raised voices or any other unpleasantries. Odd, is it not? That he should know the young man, I mean.”

‘Yes. Very odd.’ A man from Sherlock’s past, certainly, but a past involving Gregory, or perhaps, the Elder Holmes, and through him Gregory? My curiosity was being piqued the more I heard about this young man, and I became convinced, rather selfishly I should confess, to not put him out of the way till Sherlock returns but keep him close, on the off chance he should fall into conversation with me and, perhaps, shed some light on his acquaintance with Master Holmes.

“No. Not odd at all, when considering Gregory’s long relationship with the Holmeses.” I quickly replied, “Well, fetch the young man. He can keep by the fire if it suits him. I’m sure it will give some entertainment to the young ladies, as they theorize on his origin, what he is doing here and what is his business with Master Holmes.”

I made the rest of the way to the great hall and found Lestrade already there, standing by the door, while Adelmar was sitting in a window seat, very likely waiting for me, as he knows that is my preferred location. ‘Poor child. Must have had no one to talk to but Mrs. Hudson all this time, for no one else will engage him in conversation.’ I chided myself for having neglected him for almost a week, not considering until now, what my absence was doing to him. His schooling had been put on hold while the company was staying with us and because of the approach of Christmas, and so I did not have an excuse to sit and spend time with the boy during my five day absence, since his schooling no longer afforded one. I made my way to the smiling child, but before I made the mistake of starting a story to entertain him, I was reminded how curious a child can be at anything with a spark of novelty, and since I knew Mr. Moriarty was about to make his entrance, I decided it would be best not to tell any tale that I would not be able to finish or even properly start.

As anticipated, as soon as the young gentleman entered the room and was formerly, but rather curtly, introduced by Lestrade, the company’s reactions fell into the predictable pattern: Mrs. Hudson did not approach him, for she had no business with him to discuss and common courtesy required her to make no inquiries into the young man, beyond the ones she made when he was first introduced to her that morning. Adelmar was far too young to approach a stranger, even a stranger who had been invited to his own home. Lestrade, who stood by the door, seemed to have said all he had to say to the young man, before making his introduction to the rest of us, while the rest of the party knew too little regarding the young man, to risk engaging him in conversation and find out he had no social standing which could make him of any interest to them. There was a part of me that wished to be praised by Sherlock for my accurate predictions.

I on the other hand, had none of these restrictions upon me, to bind me in silence… except one: I could not bring myself to betray Sherlock; not even now. If this man had information that would shed light to the darker corners of Sherlock’s life story, I wanted to be its recipient, but never from anyone but Master Holmes. I could not bring myself to approach, after I answered little Adelmar’s questions regarding ‘l'étranger’, nor would I, even if it could be sworn to me that Sherlock would not come to know of it. Though I knew Sherlock would never, throughout his life, have to live with the difficulty of remaining in the dark about a person’s motives, emotions, or even past deeds, for he saw all and knew all, I could not use that as an excuse to delve into his private affairs, even through a willing third party. And so I remained where I was.

The ladies tattled and gossiped between them, while the men spared Mr. Moriarty an occasional, curious glance, which showed me that they did not recognize the young man either. It made me wonder about how far back their acquaintance with Master Holmes reached. In Catherine’s eyes, however… there was something else. She did more than spare the young man an occasional glance. There was even malice directed at him, but for what reason, I could not say.

At this point, I shall give a brief description of Mr. Moriarty. He was of average height, slightly taller than me, tousled hair the colour of mahogany and honey. His eyes darted all around the room at first; however, he soon lowered his gaze and began to fidget in his chair uncomfortably. I must admit, Mrs. Hudson’s first assessment, though cruel towards the young man, may have been right. He did not seem to be all there. As if he was simple minded, and the whole situation was overwhelming his mind. His clothes, though appearing to be of fine craftsmanship, were ragged in certain places, as if they had seen far better days. His eyes, a colour between brown and black, appeared vacant, and he muttered to himself quietly. I could not discern what about, from the distance from which I was sitting.

An hour had passed and there was a loud knock on the door, which had startled Mr. Moriarty a tad, but gave no pause to the rest of the party, who were still engaged as they were before, except Eleanor, who had taken to reading a book of poetry she had brought with her (clearly aware that there was no book to be found in Bakersfield Hall that would provide her with entertainment suitable for a young girl), while Catherine sat with Miss Wenceslas and partook of some of the refreshments.

Lestrade, realizing it was one of the household staff, ducked out to find out what was the matter and, after a minute or so, came back inside to make a pronouncement.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, ladies and gentlemen, but there seems to be a woman who belongs to the people they call gypsies, or Egyptians. She has come all the way from their encampment on the outskirts of Millcote, for they do not enter cities nor towns, and wishes to read the fortunes of the ladies present at the house. She specifies that only the fortunes of the younger ladies are in question, for the fortunes of the older ones are too set in stone and unchangeable, to be of any interest. Same goes, apparently, for the gentlemen, for their destinies are too tiresome to be bothered with, even at the best of times.”

Everyone was at a loss for words. There was impudence in this woman’s demands; a woman who was considered to be ‘of low birth, and a pagan, no less’. However, was there not a part of them, especially in the younger members of the company, which was curious at what would be revealed to them? Sir Jeffrey was the first to speak up:

“To the stocks with her!”

While Mrs. Riley, who became incredibly indignant, followed with:

“How dare she make demands on our time in such a way? To think we would ever consider to take an active role in the rituals of a woman like her; ungodly and unchristian. Send her away Lestrade; at once!”

“She says she will stay and will not leave, until the Master of the house asks her to do so, and since she knows he is not here, she is unwilling to depart without having her time with the young ladies.” Was Lestrade’s ready reply “She also insisted that the young ladies may only enter one at a time, their destinies not to be shared with anyone else.” 

“The impudence. Fetch her here. We shall show her that we will not be harangued in such a manner by a witch.” Constance Prince added, sharing Mrs. Riley’s opinion on the woman. Her brother, Kenneth, just coughed in what appeared to be an attempt to prevent a laugh from escaping him. Mr. Moriarty, on the other hand, did not seem to care much about the subject, and sat as he did before, without giving much of his attention to the goings on.

“No. It’s fine mother.” Catherine interposed. “Let us see what she has to say. We have no diversions planned for today, what with Master Holmes’ absence. She could provide us with the much needed entertainment.”

“Kitty,” Mrs. Riley lowered her voice “it is not proper. You cannot partake in this woman’s cheap mummery…”

“Mother, how will this experience be any different than me and Eleanor enjoying a play? Since we do not believe in it, nor do we believe this woman has any true insight regarding our destinies, it will be no more than a performance; a poor one, at that, considering how unlikely it will be for this woman to reveal anything of substance.”

I could see Mrs. Riley was not well practiced in saying ‘No’ to her daughter, and so, she was convinced to let the young ladies have their sport. First there was Eleanor, who was the youngest. She went to the small parlour that the strange woman was shown to upon her arrival, and spent no more than a quarter of an hour with the stranger. After coming back, she was pale and silent.

Miss Wenceslas was next, being just a touch younger than Catherine, and, as with Eleanor, she came back (after having spent just a slightly longer time than the younger Miss Riley), less shaken but silent as well. At last, Catherine stood up and smugly made her way out of the room. Once the door was shut behind her, the younger ladies finally broke their silence and regaled us with their experience. It appears the old woman, who was described as having dark skin and piercing eyes, was covered in layers and layers of clothing which hid her almost completely. She spoke in a low voice, deep, as if it belonged to someone else, and in the time they had spent with her, she had revealed to them who they knew, what possessions they had in their rooms, former misdeeds and small dalliances. She had told them who they would marry and even how many children they would have. As a final warning, they were ordered not to say a thing till the last lady called upon her, so that the young woman may keep her nerve and not make judgments on the experience before partaking in it herself.

Catherine spent a good half hour with the woman, and when she returned, she seemed to be in feigned good spirits, as if she had been shaken to the core but did not wish to show a weakness of courage.

“Sir Jeffrey was right, mother. We should have put her to the stocks.” The comment received some small titters from the company. I wonder what it was that had displeased her so much to have heard, and that had shaken her confidence in such a manner. Other than that cruel observation, she seemed to be very unwilling to part with any information that was revealed to her by the woman, though Eleanor and Miss Wenceslas were somewhat persistent, and even offered to reveal to her what they had learned about themselves, in exchange for a little information about her, but to no avail.

As we were about to go back to our former occupations, there was another knock at the door.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what is it now?” exclaimed Mrs. Riley. “Does she need our blood as well?” Lestrade, as before, went out and came back in, to make a second pronouncement:

“It seems there is one gentleman in the party the stranger does seem interested in.”

“I will not, for any price, let Matthew be subjected to anything as barbarous as that woman. Tell her she has had her fill, and we have had ours.” interjected Master Riley, finally expressing his opinion on the matter.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but the young man in question appears to be Master Watson.” Lestrade corrected Master Riley’s assumptions with an unaccountably bemused smile.

I was astonished. Every face turned towards me, including that of Mr. Moriarty. Catherine did not even try to hide the indignation in her stare.

“Surely she cannot mean me. I am nobody of much interest. Give her my apologies and send her on her way.”

“She is most insistent, and will not leave until she has spoken to you.”

I slowly rose, smiled back at Adelmar to reassure him, excused myself from the company, smiled warmly at Mrs. Hudson, and made my way out of the room and to the aforementioned parlour. Once there, I could see there wasn’t much light in the room, other than a strongly blazing fire. Her features did seem to be obscured by a bonnet and many scarves, while her body appeared to be padded with many layers, just as the young ladies had attested.

“Sit down, my Dear.”

‘That voice; low and deep, as the young ladies had said, but familiar as well.’

“I prefer to stand. Why have you summoned me? How could I possibly be of any interest to you?”

“You love. That interests me. You crave. That interests me. But above all, you fear. That interests me. Do not pretend you do not, it is no use. I see it all.” After taking in my astonished look, she pressed further. “Give me your hand child,” as she offered her gloved hand.

“No. You will say your piece and you will leave my Master’s house.”

“Very well then, I shall be quick: You love, yes, but you fear you are not loved back. You crave; against your own, dearly held, nature, you crave. You crave for a man you feel you are unworthy of, and you fear he cannot love you back. You fear his secrets, and that the fetters that bind him will bind you as well.” After a long moment, during which I took pause to digest what had been revealed, I replied:

“Was that meant to impress me?”

“My goal is not to impress but to impress upon; to impress upon you the severity of your situation. You cannot expect to make sure of him without being courageous; to be willing to risk everything. What will you do if you are left without a home?”

“I have my inner strength, my purity; it can sustain me, as it always has. As for this man and his fetters, he can keep them to himself or cast them upon another, as is his natural choice. Do not presume I would become nothing without what I ‘crave’ for, as you so put it. I can take care of myself, as I always have, and have no need for anyone else to keep me. If there is one thing you could claim I crave for, it is something I already have. The freedom to go where I please, whenever it so suits me. It may come at a painful price at times, but not a price I am unwilling to pay.” And at this, the ‘woman’ laughed.

I was stunned to silence.

“Master Holmes. That is a cruel game to play.” At this he threw off his disguise and wiped the soot (which had made his skin appear dark), from his brow with his handkerchief. He was smiling, pleased.

“Come now, John; just a jest. Surely no one was hurt: If what I told was a lie, then it was nothing more than cheap entertainment. If what I said is the truth, then it should not hurt those who hear it, unless they deny it from themselves.”

“And do you think the eldest Miss Riley will see it that way?” I objected, remembering Catherine’s face as she came back into the great hall.

“Don’t spoil it, John. She heard what she needed to hear. We shall have no more on the subject.”

I could not press the matter further: Besides the fact that he had asked me to make no further comment on the matter, he was right, was he not? The truth can only hurt us if we deny it from ourselves.

“There is a young gentleman to see you.” I said in order to change the subject. “He comes from Spanish Town, Jam…”

“Jamaica. Yes. Mr. Moriarty? Is he a young man or an older gentleman?”

“Young man, Sir. No more than 25 years of age.”

“Very well, then. Ask him, discreetly, to come and see me here, Lestrade will show him the way. Oh, and John. I would ask that you keep the true nature of the young ladies’ encounters to yourself, but, surely there’s no need, is there?” He added with a satisfied grin.

I turned to walk away, paused, and then resumed my walk back to the hall. I did as I was asked and, at length, Master Holmes rejoined us, without Mr. Moriarty, but rather as if he had just come back from town. While the company sought their entertainments and trying to involve Sherlock in them, I made my way to Lestrade.

“You knew, of course.” I accused him. He smiled broadly.

“Of course I knew. I wouldn’t have let that woman through the gates had I not known it was him to begin with.”

“Does he do this often?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that he had never before had a reason to pull such a farce?”

“What reason did he have now?”

“Can you not hazard a guess?” and at that, he stared at Catherine.

“Oh… But then, why me, why drag me into it?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what was told to you.”

I could not think of a reason for my summoning, no matter how many times I went over what was said in that room. All was bared by him, except a name. It made me wonder if he was actually speaking out of observation or just toying with me in the hopes that I would supply the name myself. And if the goal was to share a moment with Miss Riley, why did she come back so agitated, rather than pleased?

After a time, throughout which Mr. Moriarty made no further appearances (an absence which did not seem to elicit any sort of comment from the rest of the party), we all retired to our bed chambers.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

That very night, a loud scream, ringing throughout the house, woke me up immediately. ‘This is it. This is the moment in which Mr. Moran has finally achieved his mischief.’ I quickly made myself presentable and ran out of my room, making my way to Master Holmes’ chamber, only to be greeted with a cacophony of startled and curious people. They all appeared to have been summoned at once to the hallway, which stood further beyond Sherlock’s bedroom door, by the same scream which had summoned me. I did not reach for Sherlock’s door, for he was among those gathered, telling them in a soothing voice to make their way back to their rooms, as he inspects the matter further.

“… most likely a frightened visiting maid, the poor girl. This house can be a daunting place of residence to those who are unaccustomed to dwell within it. I shall go at once with John and see to the matter.”

Mrs. Hudson immediately took charge of the ladies and reassured them there was nothing to be alarmed about, while the men muttered and grumbled at having had their sleep disturbed, for something as silly as a frightened maid. We left them behind as we headed for the staircase and made our way to the third floor.

“John, I need your discretion and cooperation in taking care of a task which I would trust to no other.”

“What is it, Sir?” I was beginning to fear what I would find in the tower room, to which, I was now positively sure, I was being led.

“Do your very best not to scream.” And when he saw I was resolved to approach the situation in a level headed fashion, he opened the door to the brightly lit room, revealing Mr. Moriarty splayed on the couch. It was not the sight of the young man which was supposed to have frightened me, but rather the copious amounts of blood which were gushing from a neck wound he had sustained; a very serious and, surely lethal if not immediately treated, neck wound, which appeared to have been done with a crude instrument, for it did not have fine lines but jagged pieces of flesh missing. I was sure I was going to vomit at first but I remained perfectly still and waited for the room to stop spinning. Once I had regained my footing, all the while Sherlock was looking at me rather than at the wounded man, I stepped inside and with a clear and calm voice I asked what was needed of me.

“I need you to press on the wound with this piece of thick cloth. Once it is soaked through, quickly replace it with another from the pile arranged beside him. Make sure he remains calm and alert until I return with the doctor. Do not speak to him under any circumstance. James!” he turned to the young man, “You speak to him and you die of your wounds, is that understood?” Mr. Moriarty just nodded, drawing more blood from his wound.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t leave this room no matter what you hear.”

“I shall do as you ask.” And just like that he was gone, and I was left alone with a man I was not allowed to communicate with, in a locked room I had no desire to return to, after the last time I had found myself within its confines. I could hear the wind, as I did on most nights, howling through the tree branches, a sound which was drowning the distant voice of laughter, the laughter that I had come to associate with Mr. Moran. But I could not bring myself to dwell on him, or whether he was the one responsible for this young man’s wounds. I was too worried about the life that might slip through my fingers, if I do not do my task as ordered.

I spent close to half an hour, my fingers going numb from the pressure I was putting on them, till Master Holmes returned with the same doctor who had tended to his leg when he had first arrived at Bakersfield Hall, just a few months ago.

“He’s in here Carlton.” said Sherlock, as soon as he stepped through the doorway. “Come now, John. You have done marvelously, especially considering the circumstances, but let’s leave Dr. Carlton to do his job.” And at this he pulled me aside but did not try to take me back to my room. In fact, he appeared to be resolute in me not leaving his sight, his eyes following me every time I moved around the room, trying to stay awake by walking within that confined space. At first, I only heard broken fragments of the young man’s speech as he was being treated. ‘I am finished,’ and ‘He has done for me, I fear.’ I could not make out who he was referring to, besides the obvious person. But what could Moran have had against this poor young man? Could he have tried to defend Sherlock and in Moran’s madness, became the subject of his rage?

“There are teeth wounds, as well as cuts made with a blunt object.” Said Dr. Carlton at one point.

“He bit me.” Mr. Moriarty exclaimed, suddenly.

“I wish you would have called me sooner, instead of wasting his time and before he had lost so much blood.”

“He would have lost much more had I not ‘wasted’ his time, by bringing poor John here in the middle of the night to tend to his wounds. Now, get on with it!”

“He worried me like a tiger, when Sherlock got the knife from him.”

“You should not have yielded; you should have grappled with him at once,” said Master Holmes.

“But under such circumstances, what could one do?” returned Mr. Moriarty. “Oh, it was frightful!” he added, shuddering. “And I did not expect it; he looked so quiet at first.”

“I warned you,” was his friend’s answer “I said 'be on your guard when you go near him.' Besides, you might have waited till tomorrow, and had me with you. It was mere folly to attempt the interview tonight, and alone, no less!”

“I thought I could have done some good.”

“You thought! You thought! A new experience for you, I am sure. One you shan't repeat again!” Sherlock took a moment and continued:

“You have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice, so I’ll say no more. Carlton, hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off.”

“Directly, Sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm for he appears to have had his teeth here too, I think.”

“He sucked the blood... he said he’d drain my heart,” said Mr. Moriarty.

I saw Master Holmes shudder: a singularly egregious expression of disgust, horror and hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion. However, he only replied:

“Come, be silent, James, and never mind his gibberish; don’t repeat it.”

“I wish I could forget it,” was the answer.

“You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town, you may think of him as dead and buried, or rather, you need not think of him at all.”

“It is impossible to forget this night!”

“It is not impossible. Have some courage, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and yet you are all alive and talking now. There! Carlton has done with you or nearly so. I’ll make you decent in a trice. John,” (he turned to me for the first time since his reentrance), “take this key: go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing room, open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief and bring them here; and be nimble, don’t dally for a second, or I shall come and fetch you.”

I went, sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them.

“Now,” said he, “go to the other side of the couch, while I put his attire in order, but don’t leave the room; you may be wanted again.”

I retired as directed.

“Was anybody stirring below when you went down, John?” inquired Master Holmes presently.

“No, Sir. Not a soul. All was still.”

As dawn broke, and Mr. Moriarty appeared to be fit enough to stand on his own, we made our way downstairs, trying not to make any noise that would bring unwanted attention to us and what we were doing. We put the young man inside the doctor’s post-chaise, to sit by the side of Dr. Carlton. Just before Sherlock slammed the door shut, the young man leaned towards him and whispered:

“Do the best you can for him, I beg of you.”

“Haven’t I always?” Sherlock responded indignantly and slammed the door. “Haven’t I always?!”

And with that, as the dawn finally broke through the dew, they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you take a guess? Have I given enough clues?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there's a long passage that is almost entirely lifted from the book but it was almost no plot and didn't need changing anyways. However, most of it involves the bickering between the two sisters.

Sherlock left the gate behind him and passed by me, without looking at my impassive expression, as if ashamed. He took a few steps past me, but I could not register him, nor acknowledged him as he passed. I stood, staring at the wooden gate for a long time, thinking of the last uttered words that passed between the man who left and the man that stayed behind, I lowered my head and stood quietly as in thought, until I was pulled back to the present by Sherlock calling my name. The morning was chilly and damp, dew beads already covering the hem of my dressing gown, which I had hastily put on top of my night attire, when first awoken by the night's terrible and bloody events. The entire experience felt so brief and quick while I was busy trying to keep a man alive. However, once everything slowed down, and time stood still, I started to feel the ache in my bones and the exhaustion brought about by my night-long anxieties; all the events stretched unnaturally long in my mind, and the beginning of my night's repose, which had been just a few hours before, felt a lifetime ago.

 

The wooden gate, through which we had hurried Mr. Moriarty, stood a short distance away from a small stone structure that appeared to have been built before the main house was. It was in a dilapidated state but afforded some charm to the grounds behind the manor, though I had only afforded it a chanced sideways glance, despite its beauty, when we had walked past it, as we carried the injured man towards the doctor's awaiting coach.

 

"John. Will you sit down with me for a spell, before we have to go back to the house and start thinking up excuses in order to explain our exhausted state for the rest of the day?" Sherlock sounded tired; far more tired than I had ever heard by his voice.

 

"Oh… yes. Yes, Master Holmes." The shock of what had transpired had not worn off yet: the scream ringing in the night, following Sherlock through the house's darkened hallways, his request that I refrain from screaming, the startling image when the door was opened, the words said during Mr. Moriarty's frightened state, the blood on his clothing and torn flesh, the frantic pace by which Master Holmes operated, my running back and forth fetching all that was asked of me; all these small fragments of information coming back to me, little by little. There were too many details to digest, and from them, it was impossible to extrapolate any kind of theory as to what was truly hiding behind the walls of Bakersfield Hall. I was dazed, and slowly turned towards him, noting how truly exhausted he looked, even to the point of looking desolate in spirit, and made my way to the broken stone structure, its front completely open, leaving only two thirds of its walls standing; unused and merely preserved by the Holmes for its dilapidated and accidental beauty; the flowers growing in spite of the ruin; glass shattered and strewn about; a staircase that led to a second story, which no longer existed. It was a fitting setting, I thought, contemplatively.

 

"After the night which we have spent mending the deeds of madness, I need a small respite and I am sure you do as well. Come; sit down on the stairs with me."

 

"I prefer to stand… if it's all the same to you, Sir." I did not trust myself enough to join him on the stairs where he sat himself; to be in such close proximity to him, to his body, to turn my head and see his lips move.

 

"Can I speak honestly to you, Little Priest? Can I trust you won't feel repelled by my sudden honesty, when speaking of my emotions? In short, would you be my Confessor, John?" I was elated all at once. I thought 'This is the moment. This is when it is all revealed to me.'

 

"Yes, Master Holmes." I tried to hide my enthusiasm. "Although I don't know much about my role as Confessor, I do hope I will be useful to you for council." I made a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

 

"I shall like to talk to you of…"

 

"Yes?" He lowered his head and would not look me in the eye, as though I were his better.

 

"My… Beloved." He said the word as if almost disgusted by it, and before I could register my own disappointment at having the subject confessed to me not to be the one I desired, I became intrigued none the less, especially because of the depth with which he said the word and the honesty of his apparent intentions. He was not making an attempt at mocking me, as I sometimes feared when interacting with the gentleman, but rather seemed in earnest.

 

"I'm sorry, Sir. Are you speaking of Mademoiselle Adler?"

 

"What? No. No, not of her. The name is not important but… John… Do you think a man should follow his own desire, regardless of the consequences? Do you think differences in status and wealth should have a say over one's heart when the desire to bind oneself to another human being has arisen?"

 

"Your… heart?" I took a moment before smiling, and answering "I have been kindly informed you have no heart."

 

"I never said that." He said, without seeming to have been offended by my, in retrospect, somewhat cruel and ill-timed remark.

 

"What?" I asked, bewildered, the smile falling from my face.

 

"I have never claimed to have no heart. Only that I will not let it rule me." It took me some time to gather the strength needed for me to ask him for further clarification.

 

"And you have found the person for whom you are willing to make that concession? To be willing to expose yourself to the heart's debilitating grasp and caprices?" I inquired, unable to hide my bitterness at having Miss Riley, about whom he must surely be speaking, remembering the conversation I had with Mrs. Hudson, regarding the young lady's high rank but poor prospects, before she came accompanying Sherlock just a few weeks ago. I say, my bitterness could not be left out of my voice when thinking of her as the one to make Sherlock rethink his position on matters of the heart, and I could not come to terms regarding which charms she could have possibly employed in his presence, beyond snobbery and condescension. Charms, which I may not have been made privy to; there was even some callousness towards Adelmar, despite the child's misguided tendency to gravitate towards her, during those early days of their stay, that repelled me completely and made her an ugly sight in my eyes.

 

"I think I have, but, John. What of my qualms? Should they be put aside to accommodate my desires? I have made the mistake before, and let such superficial qualms navigate me, but…" and then he murmured something unintelligible, something that sounded like 'Father' and '… in the other direction…'

 

"But..?"

 

"Oh, no matter. It is inconsequential. But, what would you council, John?"

 

I took a deep breath. I could not, in good conscious, persuade him against taking a wife for such reasons. Not only because such counterarguments would be of an undeniable hypocritical nature, were I ever to aspire in engaging his solicitations myself, being so much lower in rank and standing, but also because I could not give him advice in whose merit I did not truly believe. I could not advise him to reject love for such base and self-interested reasons. At length, as if pondering the matter, I gave him my answer, very reluctantly.

 

"Sir, if someone had stirred my emotions strongly enough and aroused my passions to such an extent, as to make me abandon a resolve, which had guided me almost half my life, to never let emotion and sentiment rule my actions, I would not let something as inconsequential as the opinions of others to dictate who I would bind my life to. Such petty considerations, with all due respect, Sir, should not have any consequence regarding your decision or sway your resolve in any way. I apologize if that was not… what you hoped to hear," I looked down at his shoes as I said this, "but I can not speak any differently. If Miss Riley has shaken you and brought about such change in your demeanor, I could not advise you to take any other course." He seemed to ponder my words, and, at length, smiled towards me as he looked up.

 

"Thank you, John. You have been of more use than you could possibly imagine. Let us make our way back. Don't join us today if you feel too tired. I shall come up with an excuse if anyone inquires after you." 'Who would possibly inquire after me?' I asked myself, sullenly, as we made our way back to the house in silence, the grass crunching under our heavy steps.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

In my childhood, I once heard Bessie, as she talked to Mrs. Abbott, about how unlucky it is to dream of small children and babes. "Why, just last year, I spent an entire month dreaming of young Jonah and, at the close of the month, was given word by letter that my sister had passed away, after succumbing to a rapid consumption, which took her life in less than a fortnight."

 

For a week, after the attack on Mr. Moriarty, I dreamt of no one but Adelmar: playing with him, running after him, teaching him something new. But I had quite forgotten about Bessie's warning until, on the seventh day, I was approached by Mrs. Hudson as I came down to the kitchens to chat with Molly, and was given by her some unexpected news. At this point in the sojourn of Master Holmes' guests, I was back in my priestly vestments, and was no longer required to wear my suit as I did not join the party as often as before. I also resumed Adelmar's teaching, which provided the child with an excuse to be absent as well.

 

"Excuse me, John, but, there appears to be a gentleman waiting at the tradesman's entrance, by the kitchen, looking to have a word with you."

 

"Did he give a name, Mrs. Hudson?"

 

"Yes, he has, John. Robert Leaven."

 

I was a bit taken aback. It was like being pulled back all at once to your childhood and then back again to the present; by placing the old acquaintance, which you have put quite out of mind, in the new light of one's current position.

 

"Oh, he's uh, the Reed's coachman. I knew him during my childhood. Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I shall go and see to him right away."

 

I made my way to the tradesman's entrance, which led to the grounds situated behind the manor, and to the gardens where the stone ruins were located near the wooden gate, where Master Holmes had revealed his intentions towards Miss Riley only the week before.

 

"Robert." I smiled, as I approached him, for I was truly happy to be greeted by a person from my past, towards whom I had no feelings of dread when in their presence. "I trust you come bearing news from home." It felt odd to call Gateshead Hall 'home', especially considering how much Bakersfield Hall had come, in the short time I had spent there, to be more of a home than Gateshead ever was. But I felt an unexplainable soft pull towards it when in Robert's presence, and from the memory of Bessie and our last encounter back at Lowood, which made my resentment, in regards to my childhood home and its inhabitants, subside and to be painted in a finer manner within me. Perhaps being away from it for so long, had sanded-down the rougher edges. Or perhaps it was the joy of calling Gateshead Hall home to someone who never made me feel it was never my home to begin with. Whatever the reason was, Robert did not seem very joyous at bringing me tidings from there.

 

"Young Master John. I'm afraid I have some upsetting news." He hesitated for a few seconds and then continued. "Master John Reed, after a long and desolate period of aimlessness and drunkenness, has… it appears he has… he's, uh, dead, Master John. He… uh, he was found… with a gun…"

 

"He killed himself?!?" I blurted out, without any regard to how delicately Robert was trying to convey the news.

 

"He is dead, yes. The news of it has broken Mrs. Reed and she is no longer sensible. She is sinking fast and, strangely enough, has called for you to come to her."

 

"I? Summoned, to be with her when she is nigh passing?" I could not understand what had brought this about. Had she any regrets about her treatment of me all those years ago? Did she finally feel the sting of my "parting curse", now that her days were drawing to a close? I noticed Robert had nothing more to say and remained silent unless prompted, and so, after politely enquiring about his two boys and Bessie (but asking about no one else), with an eagerness that may have been a bit lacking, which could have been attributed to the news that I had just been delivered, and despite my supplications that he should stay to rest for a while, and try some of our Molly's lovely sweet rolls with tea, before he makes the long journey back to -----shire, he gave me his awkward goodbyes and left quickly.

 

I was at a loss regarding what to do. After contemplating the matter, and making my excuses to Molly as I left the kitchen without taking breakfast with her as planned, I realized that the journey could not be avoided, and I was, besides, more than eager to learn what had compelled my aunt to summon me to her deathbed. I made my way to Master Holmes' study, knowing he was there this morning (after inquiring with Mrs. Hudson on my way out of the kitchens), rather than spending his time with his guests, and taking care of some business he had with London. Mrs. Hudson intimated that she was quite sure the business, which was taking Master Holmes away from his guests, had something to do with his future wedding plans and its expenditures; the correspondence he was carrying on, was with a Mr. Wilkes, an old friend of Sherlock's, who was also his trusted banker. With this information in my mind, gnawing at my insides, I approached the gentleman and asked, very bluntly (possibly because of my, admittedly, inexcusable and misdirected resentment), for half my yearly wages, so I may make the journey to Gateshead Hall.

 

"Half your wages, John?" He seemed to smile.

 

"Yes, Sir. My yearly wages are thirty pounds per annum. That was the amount agreed upon before I was engaged, and it has now been 6 months since I came under your employment. I will need fifteen pounds, immediately, for I am to make my way to my aunt's deathbed in Gateshead Hall."

 

"What..? Why? Why would you leave… why would you make the journey to see such a woman?"

 

"Because she has asked me to, because I can not deny a dying woman's wish and because I am curious to hear what she would have to say to me, now that she is too worn and frayed by her approaching demise to be vicious towards me, as she had been in my childhood."

 

"So your cousin has finally destroyed himself and the family's fortune." I was no longer taken aback by these piercingly deductive statements. "Well, all I have with me is a thirty pound note and a ten pound note. You can have the thirty and owe me the remainder." He smiled wryly. I stared at his outstretched hand for quite some time and then raised my eyes into his, defiantly.

 

"Fine. I will take the ten pound note. And now **you** owe me the remainder."

 

"I could think of no man better to owe. And now you'll **have** to return to me." I turned away from him and left after a small pause by the door, while I had my back to him.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

I shall not weary you with an account, as I have before, of my journey back to Gateshead Hall.

 

As the coach approached the gates, I began to feel the dull ache of my parentless upbringing. Even though my parents had never, to my knowledge, ever gazed upon the house, much less stepped into it, as a married couple (my mother had grown up there but she was never spoken of and so I was never told which rooms she had occupied nor where she liked to spend her time). I say, even though they never spent time within its confines, there was a connection made in my mind that places them within the manor's halls. The same connection children make to their childhood's events by remembering what their parents did or how they reacted. Having no parents didn't spare me of making that connection, and to come back to Gateshead, brought back all the melancholic times I spent longing and wishing to have my mother and father back and to be taken out of the hands of people who were less eager to have me lodging within the boundaries of their great estate, than I was willing to reside with them.

 

During the first few days, I was not allowed to come into Aunt Reed's presence. She was mostly unintelligible, and this persistent state was brought about by the shock that overtook her when told of Master Reed's death, accompanied with the news of his wild and reckless spending, which had led to the family's impoverishment. She was aware of how impulsively and recklessly he had carried out his time, after he left home and situated himself in London, making excuses in her mind to justify her lenient attitude towards him and her unwillingness and inability to curve his thoughtlessness. However, the full scale of his plundering of the family fortune was never known to her until Master John Reed was no longer alive to keep the devastating truth from her. It had also transpired, as I later found out from my cousins, the Misses Reed, that there was a child, born out of wedlock, whose future now seemed uncertain since the mother was quite destitute, and the child's father's family knew nothing that even resembled Christian charity.

 

I can not deny that I sensed a small pang of guilt, even though my aunt had put herself quite beyond my pity by her treatment of me. It was a feeling I could not alleviate during the time I spent waiting for her to recuperate her strength well enough to see me, and tell me what it was she had summoned me for, even though I spent much of it dwelling on former wrongs which were perpetrated on me during my childhood, and should have put all thought of pity towards the woman, completely out of my mind. I spent my days, while waiting for my aunt to recuperate, in the company of my cousins.

 

After a time, I became listless and decided to diverse myself, rather than expect my cousins to engage me. I took pen and paper and began to sketch. There was no consideration regarding the subject; I only sketched a face, without giving much thought to its owner. However, it soon turned to something concrete on its own accord: the soft cheeks turning jagged, the eyes remaining pale, the nose going from sharp to Imperial.

 

“Is that a portrait of someone you know?” asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied. It was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Master Holmes. But what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that 'an ugly man.' They both seemed surprised at my skill and I offered to sketch their portraits, and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album, for which I promised to contribute a watercolour drawing, which put her at once into good humour, and she proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation, and she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago: of the admiration she had there excited, the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the aforementioned conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented, and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day and they always ran on the same theme: herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or her brother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother’s sick-room, and no more.

 

Eliza still spoke little. She had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did; or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, “The Rubric.” Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way, and that this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.

 

She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John’s conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her, but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died, and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or linger long, she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.

 

“Of course not. Georgiana and I have nothing in common." They never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration. "Georgiana should take her own course; and I, will take mine.”

 

Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time lying on the sofa, fretting about the dullness of the house and wishing over and over again that her Aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town.

 

“It would be so much better,” she said, “if I could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.” I did not ask what she meant by “all being over,” but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister’s indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus:

 

“Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth; you had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought to, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person’s strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered, you must have music, dancing, and society, or you languish, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes— include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one’s company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or anyone else, happen what may. Neglect it, go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling, and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother’s death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this: if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.” She closed her lips.

 

“You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade,” answered Georgiana. “Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere, for you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.” Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

 

After five days, Aunt Reed had a lucid afternoon in which I was granted permission by her physician to converse with her, instead of simply sitting close to the door, hoping for her to come to her senses. She was in a bad state; her room cold and stuffy, the curtains drawn because the light was far too intense for her eyes in her weakened state. It took me close to a quarter of an hour, going by the clock sitting atop the fireplace mantelpiece, to gather my courage and approach halfway to her couch. It would have taken me longer, had I not a fear of her losing her grasp on reality again and slipping back to her dazed state.

 

The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: 'One lies there,' I thought, 'who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Where will that spirit, now struggling to quit its earthly vessel, flit when she is released?'

 

In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Mark, recalled his dying words, his faith, and his doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to his well-remembered tones, still picturing his pale and spiritual aspect, his wasted face and sublime gaze, as he lay on his placid deathbed, and whispered his longing to be restored to his divine Father’s bosom (or perhaps that was simply how I remembered him), when a feeble voice murmured from the couch:

 

“Who is that?” I knew Aunt Reed had not spoken for days ('was she reviving?') I went up to her.

 

“It is I, Aunt Reed.”

 

“Who—I?” was her answer. “Who are you?” looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. “You are quite a stranger to me—where is Bessie?”

 

“She is at the lodge, Aunt.”

 

“Aunt,” she repeated. “Who calls me Aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you… that face, and the eyes and nose, are quiet familiar to me: you are like… why, you are like John Watson!” I said nothing, for I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity. “Yet,” said she, “I am afraid it is a mistake. My thoughts are deceiving me. I wished to see John Watson, and I fancy a likeness where none exists. Besides, in eight years he must be so changed.” I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be, and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Bakersfield.

 

“I am very ill, I know,” she said ere long. “I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die. Is the nurse here? Is there no one in the room but you?” I assured her we were alone. “Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child; the other…” she stopped. “After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,” she murmured to herself, “and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to him is painful.” She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensation; the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang. “Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me, and I had better tell him. Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there.” I obeyed her directions. “Read the letter,” she said. It was short, and thus conceived:

 

_Madam,—Will you have the goodness to send me_

_the address of my nephew, John Watson, and to tell me_

_how he is? It is my intention to write shortly and_

_desire him to come to me at Madeira. Providence_

_has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency;_

_and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to_

_adopt him during my life, and bequeath to him, at my_

_death, whatever I may have to leave.—I am,_

_Madam, &c., &c.,_

_John Watson, Madeira._

 

It was dated three years back.

 

“Why did I never hear of this?” I asked.

 

“Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity, and I could not forget your conduct to me, John. The fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind. I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man’s voice… Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!”

 

“Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered her the draught she required, “think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day.” She heeded nothing of what I said, but when she had tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus:

 

“I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge. For you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but John Watson was dead: he had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please. Write and contradict my assertion and expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment. My last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit.”

 

“If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, Aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness”

 

“You have a very bad disposition,” said she, “and one to this day I feel it impossible to understand. How for nine years you could be patient and quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I can never comprehend.”

 

“My disposition is not so bad as you think, for I am passionate, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long, earnestly, to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, Aunt.”

 

I approached my cheek to her lips, but she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I laid her down, for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank, I covered her icecold and clammy hand with mine; the feeble fingers shrank from my touch and the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.

 

“Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,” I said at last, “you have my full and free forgiveness. Ask now for God’s, and be at peace.” Poor, suffering woman! It was too late for her to make now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me; dying, she must hate me still.

 

The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity, but she gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor and her mind did not again rally. At twelve o’clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look at her, but Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There, was stretched, Sarah Reed’s once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain. Nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for her woes, and a somber tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form. Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she observed

 

“With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age, but her life was shortened by trouble.” Then a spasm constricted her mouth for an instant, and as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Master Holmes had given me but one week’s leave of absence, yet a month elapsed before I quitted Gateshead Hall. As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or her sister again, I may as well mention here, that Georgiana made an advantageous match with a wealthy worn-out man of fashion, and that Eliza actually took the veil, and is at this day superior of the convent where she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she endowed with her fortune.

 

And I? Am I to make my way to Bakersfield Hall again, not knowing whether I’ll be welcomed by its Master and his new intended Lady? I had heard from Mrs. Hudson, in the intervening weeks, that the party at the hall was dispersed and Sherlock had left for London three weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a fortnight. Mrs. Hudson surmised that he was gone to make arrangements for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a new carriage. She said the idea of his marrying Miss Riley still seemed strange to her, but from what everybody said, and from what she had herself seen, she could no longer doubt that the event would shortly take place. ‘I don’t doubt it.’ was my mental comment.

 

I did not tell Mrs. Hudson of my date of return in advance, not wishing for a coach to be sent for me, or, if I am being honest, not wishing to expect one and have none arrive. I reached Millcote and made my way on foot, with only the thought of finding a new home for myself and worrying what future Adelmar will have with Miss Riley for a stepmother, as my companions. I passed by the foggy road on which I collided with Sherlock so many months ago, and the pang of separation from him hit me afresh. Finally, I reached the grounds of Bakersfield Hall, passed the wooden gate, and found Sherlock sitting exactly where he was sitting the night he confessed to me of his resolve.

 

“So. You’re back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we come...


	12. Chapter 12

"So. You're back to me." He offered with a smile. He was sitting on a broken wall that seemed to girdle the outside of the estate; decrepit and uncared for. He had a book with him from his library which I recognized; a treatise of some kind, on criminal behaviour, or rather misbehaviour, among the well-born. The skies were rather dark, which made me wonder why Sherlock had chosen to go outside and read, rather than do so within the confines of his comfortable library.

 

"Yes, Master Holmes. I am back. Is this a happy reunion? And do you find me much changed?" I made an attempt at levity, to counterbalance my growing despair.

 

"Much. Grief becomes you." He knows. He knows what I have been carrying with me as I made my way here.

 

I looked down and answered, "That is a sharp thing to say, Master Holmes." to mask my embarrassment at being seen through, yet again. "My aunt may not have been the most loving woman towards me throughout my childhood, but she died god-fearing and even humbled by her guilty conscious at her treatment of me."

 

"And so, you defend her still. Tell me John; are you utterly incapable of rancor? Does your heart have no room for acrimonious inclinations? Truly, can you not hate?" His tone denoted true wonderment and astonishment; even affection. I was baffled and could do nothing but stammer.

 

"I… Sir, you kindly malign me with affectionate disparagement. Or are… are you mocking me? Do you truly think me incapable of wrong and, in being so, worthy of callous contempt?” I was trying to keep my temper, not wishing to upbraid him too severely on account of the despair that had been building up as I made my way… home? “Let me ask you: has hate and anger ever given you succor, Sherlock? Has the resentment you hold towards your brother ever given you any satisfaction?" I bit back too hard.

 

"You wound me." He surprised me with his sudden sullen expression. "You do not know what transpired between us; that, which brought me low and made me feel the way I do towards the memory of my departed brother. He… he did something unthinkable; a true breach of his brotherly duties, and he did it in collusion with my long-departed father."

 

"But holding on to your resentment," I pressed further, closing the distance between us, his position elevated upon the broken down wall, which forced me to look up into his eyes, "has that been helpful? Has it not brought you lower and left you feeling alone, incapable of taking solace in the memory of your brother and the childhood you shared?" He must sense my own, unguarded envy, at having been brought up in a desolate manner with no filial affection.

 

"Do you speak as a priest or as an only-child? No, I did not share my childhood with Mycroft, John. Our difference in age and temperament made it quite impossible, and besides, my father did not encourage an attachment in the least. Mycroft was virtually a stranger to me during those years. A name my parents used to mention with obvious pride, brought about by his achievements in school, and, later, during his pursuit of advancement within the civil service, bringing him closer and closer to a brilliant political career. I only knew him when I was already a young man, not a child, and by that point, he had no use for brothers; especially not the kind with a stark propensity for causing him professional embarrassment. You are quite right, my ‘Little Priest’; resentment has brought me nowhere near repose. But I can not change my character. The thing is stuck with a nail."

 

"And wouldn't if you could, I should imagine." I jested, to try and break the tension which had built all of a sudden, and in a desperate attempt to lighten his mood. "You have a **mighty** high opinion of yourself… and not without merit." He smiled, which in turn, made my heart just that bit lighter.

 

"My comfort and my company; that is what you are, John. When all the world would have me persecuted against, you would have joined me in my cell.” ‘I would have. Would have followed him to the gallows and held his hand before he kneeled one last time.’ The image, stark and bold within my mind in its violence, was somewhat sobering. “Will you let me walk with you to the house? I have tired of this book, and no new relevant information can be gleaned from it."

 

“Yes, Sir. Gladly.”

 

We walked in silence, the grass crunching under our feet as a light rain started to fall, making a soft patter as it hit our shoulders. I had only a few possessions taken with me to Gateshead but Sherlock insisted on carrying my bag for the remainder of the way. He did something which touched me for some unexplainable reason, which was to put his book within it to join my own possessions. I realize he just did it because it would have been silly to occupy both his hands when the book could easily be carried within my bag, and yet it still felt intimate. Striding alongside him became a new reminder of what I would be leaving behind, and, as it mingled with the intimate action he had just taken, my spirits sank afresh.

 

“Must you leave, John?” As always, he spoke direct and to the point.

 

“I feel I must, Sir. You are to have a wife, and Bakersfield Hall a new Mistress. There will be no room for a tutor once…” I was stuck. For though my departure had more to do with my unfortunate attachment to Sherlock, the fact was that Miss Riley will most certainly have Adelmar sent away for his schooling rather than have him about the house, and so my position will become superfluous, regardless of my own emotional inclinations. But how could I say as much and, in so doing, appear to criticize Miss Riley and her frosty demeanor towards that innocent boy?

 

“Once Miss Riley becomes my wife, you mean? Yes, I dare say she would put Adelmar out of the way the moment she’d set foot in this house.”

 

“And does it not bother you? I realize Adelmar is not your son but you brought him here out of your own volition. Could you not speak on his behalf?” I became desperate. I did not want the child to grow up without some kind of father.

 

“And offend my new bride? No, John. I’m afraid you’re quite right.” I was astonished. I took him to be a man of conviction, to be ruled by no one. “But where will you go?”

 

I rallied quickly, to hide my disappointment in him. “I’ll advertise as I did before. My introduction to the Seminary is quite a long way off and so I must find honest work to support me till then.”

 

“Do you still see the priesthood as your life’s calling?” He was speaking in earnest and gave me the impression he was not asking but stating a fact.

 

“I do not understand.”

 

“John… You are a compassionate and loyal young man, and though those are highly valuable attributes for a man of the cloth, there is also a need for a sedentary and intractable inclination; a hazy disposition towards doing good, rather than a true conviction towards making things right. You are not one to sit around and wait for the world to become a just place by talking **at** it, but rather the kind who would fight for justice to be made for those who deserve it. In a different time, you would have been a Paladin, not a Cleric. Regardless what my opinion is on the church and its members, I do not think you are suited for a life of waiting and talking.” Yes. It was true my faith had wavered during these last few months. It is true, and I cannot hide it, least of all from him.

 

“I… uh, I have struggled with the question many nights, and my stay at Gateshead has reminded me of some of my old spirit of restlessness. I can not escape my true nature, and to have myself bound to the church would do me a disservice and the church as well. The further the distance between me and my life at Lowood grows, the less I can recall what it was that had set me on that road to begin with. I have grown accustomed to **this** lifestyle and would not leave it gladly once my call is up. I feel ashamed of expressing these doubts and, in so doing, reveal a taciturn nature and to appear so unreliable. Yet I cannot deny it, no. The church is no longer for me. I don’t think it ever was. And now I must find a new life; one that takes me away from here.” This was a hard thing to admit, most of all to myself. I felt true shame at abandoning what should have been a life calling. But I was haunted again and again by the words of Jane Austen, and felt utter repulsion at the thought of being a clergyman who ‘… has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish—read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.’ I could not imagine a more desolate existence. Absolute horror gripped me, and though I am sure I would start as a true radical, my daily, weekly, monthly and yearly obligations would eventually wear me down to the very bone, and upon them I would eventually start to build ‘the fat of the land’.

 

“I know of a position you can take up. In Ireland.” My heart stopped for a moment at the mention of Ireland, and snapped me out of my introspection. Ireland. Would he send me so far away? No placement can he find for me within his neighbourhood, county or even island? He would send me across a watery divide?

 

“To Ireland, Sir?”

 

“Yes, John. My friend, Sebastian Wilkes, has a younger brother in need of a good tutor for his son, who is aged eleven.”

 

“All the way in Ireland? Would you have me go so far?” What was I doing? Was I trying to persuade him from doing what I had planned to do myself?

 

“What difference would it make to you? There is no family left behind. No attachments. You are free.”

 

“You are quite right.” I conceded. “There is no attachment keeping me here. You may contact your friend and tell him you can supply him with a tutor.”

 

“Must you go, tough?” I was confused. Had he not just now convinced me I was right in my assumptions? “I feel the scarlet string that attaches me to you will become taut beyond its limit and break, the moment you set your foot aboard a ship. Must you leave?”

 

“I’m afraid I must, Sir.”

 

“Could not a position be made for you to fill? My secretary, perhaps? You are well versed in French and have a good head on your shoulders. Must you leave?” My heart was breaking at the thought of witnessing his marital bliss and my resolve grew stronger and my determination harder.

 

“I’m afraid I must, Sir.” I repeated, as if answering within a prayer, for I dared not to elaborate.

 

“I am offering you a way to remain here, John. After so many years I have spent in agony, will you not stay and see me happy? Will you leave me as well; just as so many have done before you?” I could not endure it any more.

 

“Oh, Sir! Do you think so little of me?” Tears stung my eyes. I turned my head away but kept looking at him as I spoke, not caring any longer for him to see my distress. “Do you think I could stay and watch you share your life with another person? You see so much, for heaven’s sake, you must see this as well! Do you think me unfeeling? That I have ice water running through me, freezing my heart and cutting me from it? Will you have to watch me bleed to see I am a man as you are? You speak of a scarlet string attaching us and how taut it will become at our parting.” I had begun to shout at this point. “Well, how painful… how painful do you think I will find it? That string is laced through me as tightly as it is spun through you. Do you… do you think me a machine? I am made of the same flesh you are made of, and I am speaking to you from the same sensitive soul you seem to think I lack. As surely as if we had discarded our bodies after passing through the grave and were standing naked within the mansions of the dead. How many wounds do you think I can take before I am no longer the man you admitted, no more than half an hour ago, to take comfort in? Do not wound me further, I beg of you! Just let me BE!” He smiled, contentment showing clearly.

 

“You are cruel… could I have been so easily deceived?” I said this to myself for the most part.

 

“You are NOT the machine, my John!” He grabbed me by the shoulders, startling me, “Miss Riley is!” he then lowered his lips towards mine. I found the transition so earthshattering, so disparate from our former engagement, that I did no more than gasp with surprise. I regained my senses, pushed him away and struck his face with all my strength, the sound of his cold cheek being slapped had stopped time completely for me. He stumbled back but was still smiling while holding his quickly reddening face, as if taking no offence at my violent action.

 

“Villain! How dare you!?!” I shouted. “To speak of your intended in such a way and then to claim my lips. You are right. I am not a machine. YOU ARE!”

 

“I love **you,** John. Miss Riley was never to be my intended. She was a catalyst. She was a way of breaking your defenses by sparking your jealousy.”

 

“You… wait, you did all that, the whole time she was here, with her family watching and expecting an engagement, just to be sure of my…” Love. “regard for you?!?”

 

“Do not feel bad about her being used in such a way. An unfeeling article and downright fortune hunter, she is. I meant what I said, John. **SHE** is the machine. Before your departure I had put about a rumour through my London banker, Sebastian Wilkes.” ‘The correspondence on his table the day I asked my leave for Gateshead.’ “And during your absence the word had spread like wildfire, that my fortune was a third of what it really is, which even so would have still made a substantially sizable estate. Then I made my way to call on her. You should have seen the reception I was offered: cold indifference and a ridiculous excuse to get me on my way. YOU are my rose without a thorn. Do you think I could not see what kind of wife or foster mother she would be? I, who ‘see everything’, as you always put it. I would not tie myself to another… a monster.”

 

“Was this a game for you? A balancing act of some kind? To use my naiveté for your amusement?” I could still not believe him to be sincere. “I am young, and you…”

 

“I am speaking the truth, John. I have never in all my life wanted anything more than to see you happy. You have destroyed me completely, do you realize? You have compromised all that I had built in way of MY defenses. It is you. You are all I want.”

 

After all these years, I still cannot describe in words all that I felt. A prism of emotions, all reflected off my countenance: between heart-stopping relief, searing anger, misplaced compassion, redirected resentment, hidden embarrassment, joyous and unbounded happiness and a myriad of flitting and unnamable emotions, which must have all been easy for him to read just from looking at my face. I came closer to him, took his face in my hands and brought his lips down towards mine. Unlike the first time, I could taste his ardour. He pressed against me and I flustered at the contact, reminding me of the night he protected me from the fire, the heat now our own.

 

The rain became quite heavy at this point and chased us inside, laughing and holding hands. Pilot, who was also making his way inside, joined us in our running. Once inside, we said our goodbyes by parting lips, as we each made our ways to our chambers in order to put on fresher clothes. I could not ignore being spotted, as I climbed the stairway, by Lestrade, who must have seen us coming in and what had followed just after. He gave me an odd look, almost worried, which I couldn’t place nor understand. It was not surprise, though.

 

“Gregory, is something the matter?”

 

“I, uh, no… Master John. Did I see Master Holmes just now?”

 

“Yes. He has gone up to his room to change out of his wet clothes.”

 

“Alright. I’ll just go and tend to him and dress him before dinner. Thank you for informing me.”

 

I made my way upstairs, dried myself with warm terrycloth, which had been hung in-front of the blazing fire ahead of time. I reminded myself to thank Mrs. Hudson for having thought ahead. She appeared to have the greatest gift a servant can have, which is the gift of anticipation.

 

After dressing myself, I made my way down and expected to find Mrs. Hudson on the way to the dining room, as she always joined me (and Sherlock, when he felt like partaking in food), during supper. Strangely enough, when I entered, I found Sherlock was there, with Adelmar close by, but Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight. Nor was Lestrade standing by the door to help Sally with the serving duties, as he always did, but rather Molly, which was very unusual. I felt compelled to ask Sherlock about these strange arrangements but Sherlock’s only answer was that he had seen enough of that meddlesome old woman and that interfering man.

 

Following that awkward moment, we ate in comfortable silence, as Adelmar told me all he had been up to during my absence and how much he was looking forward to resuming our lessons. He was particularly eager at the chance of continuing our botanical endeavours, which had to be put aside when winter made it impossible to achieve or learn anything from the frozen ground.

 

It was at this point, during the lull in conversation, that I began to do something I had never, in my entire life, had ever done. I questioned my place. I had always been made aware of who I was by other people; plainly and sometimes even cruelly. I was a son, then a cherished ward, then no better than a guest at a relative’s home, then a student, a friend, a… beloved, a protégé, a colleague, a retainer, a tutor, a substitute father… now what? What was I? How do I engage him? How familiarly can I speak to him? What can I and can’t I ask him about his business, his day, his history, his life, his passions, his past cases, his…

 

“John.”

 

“Um, what? Sorry?” I smiled as I realized I had been thinking rather than eating which must have been pretty obvious to the gentleman.

 

“You’re thinking too loudly.” He fondly stated with a smile to mirror my own. “You have never found it hard to engage me in conversation during our times in the library just after supper. Never ran out of topics to discuss, anecdotes to share…”

 

“Which you finished for me since you knew how they would end just as well as I did.” I teased.

 

“Exactly. Do not think we have changed. I feel exactly as I did that first evening on that road. And so do you. Talk to me now as you did before.”

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Happiness is a treasonable state; a double edged sword. We remember nothing of it. It is only despair that lingers and makes everything stretch. People say life is short. That is a damnable lie. Life is long. It is so long for some. It is misery that makes it long; sadness and misfortune stretch it intolerably. That is why happiness is so important. It makes us forget about living because we **ARE** living. I can not remember much of what happened between Sherlock’s confession and the date he set for our Enbrotherment because of feeling happiness for the first time in my life. Happiness that was not tinged with something else which I could not name at times. Except for one conversation with Lestrade, which I only recalled afterwards because of its alarming nature, the intervening months were a blur of taking Sherlock’s likeness in my drawing pad, walking in the gardens, holding his hand, freely claiming his lips, laughing…

 

But as I said, a few days after meeting Lestrade just as me and Sherlock were chased inside by the rain, he found me alone, for the first time, in the gardens, taking a morning stroll. Sherlock did not join me just yet as he was busy procuring for us all that would be needed after the ceremony. Mr. Brocklehurst, after hearing about my change of heart, by letter, so much from being angry or disappointed, was happy to hear I was abandoning my previously chosen path for one that would make me so much happier. For though it was not impossible for an Enbrothered man to be a clergyman, he had always had niggling doubts about my convictions, but feared to raise them in case they were unfounded, and risk turning me from my path simply because I had been made to doubt my own conviction. He was delighted to be asked to officiate.

 

Lestrade approached me, rather apprehensively, and for some time, only walked beside me without making an attempt to breach the subject that was quite obviously bothering him.

 

“John… I, uh… Well, let me speak frankly. You must have realized by now the nature of my relationship with Master Holmes,” I gave him an odd look at this “The **late** Master Holmes. I shall not mince words but say that, though I loved him dearly… John, loving a Holmes is dangerous business.”

 

“What do you mean, Greg? Please do not remain so cryptic. Say what it is you mean.”

 

“I would not have said as much as this and it might not even come to anything in the end.” This last part he said more to himself.

 

“Greg?”

 

“Please, just be cautious. I have to take my leave now.” And with that, he left.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

And so the day came. The carriage awaited, the suits were pressed and hung, the flowers arranged, the house and its occupants, my new family, all dressed in their finest. Adelmar, in his little suit, holding a basket with petals (the occasion being somewhat unusual, the child may be forgiven for having chosen to grace us with an etiquette usually reserved for a more feminine disposition), he was standing in front of Mrs. Hudson as she stood by the house’s main entrance with the rest of them: Sally, Greg, Molly, Anderson, Adelmar’s nanny; Sophie, were all waiting for us to take our leave to the small church that had once been Mr. Hudson’s responsibility. I was so proud of my ensemble, chosen by me but bought for me by Sherlock just a few days earlier. I felt like a man, though only just under nineteen. Then, all of a sudden, I was taken by the hand by Sherlock, who had descended the stairs rapidly and grabbed me in a fluid motion, forcefully and with determination. He took me past our waiting friends and through the door, and raced us on foot towards the church, with Anderson trying to keep up with us, as he was to tend to us during the ceremony as valet. I was too astonished to consider what had changed Sherlock’s demeanour in such a way but before I could dwell on it, we found ourselves striding the length of the church and standing in front of Mr. Brocklehurst, who was taken by surprise, as I had been, for he did not expect us so soon.

 

“Get on with it!” Sherlock barked at him.

 

“Uh, yes. Well, we are gathered here…”

 

“Stop!” An older gentleman, whom I had never in my life laid eyes upon, entered the small chapel, demanding the ceremony be halted. There was a second figure, remaining in the background, whose face I could not discern quite clearly.

 

“Get to the Three Promises! NOW!” Sherlock demanded.

 

“Oh, uh, do you gentlemen here today swear to share one Bread, one Wine, and one Purse, so long as you both shall live?”

 

“Stop, I said. The ceremony is quite broken off,” subjoined the voice behind us. “An insuperable impediment to this union exists.”

 

“Get on with it!” Sherlock demanded more forcefully.

 

“I cannot.” Mr. Brocklehurst seemed at a loss. “What is the nature of the impediment?” he asked. “Perhaps it may be got over; explained away?”

 

“Hardly,” was the answer, as the man made his way towards us. “I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly.” He approached the railing which stood behind us and continued. “It simply consists in the existence of a previous Enbrotherment. Mr. Holmes has a husband now living.” I was thundered, rooted to the spot and looked at Sherlock, my eyes begging for it to be false, and finding, for the first time, that his face conveyed to me exactly what he was feeling, unguardedly. The terror I saw shook me and obliterated all my hopes this was all but a mistake.

 

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked of the intruder without looking behind him.

 

“My name is Briggs, a solicitor of ----- street, London.”

 

“And you would thrust on me a husband?”

 

“I would remind you of that gentleman’s existence, sir, which the law recognizes, even if you do not.”

 

“Favour me with an account of him: with his name, his parentage, his place of abode.”

 

“Certainly.” Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out the following, in a sort of official, nasal voice:

 

“I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. 1832 (a date of fifteen years back, when I was but 3 years of age and Sherlock no more than 18), Sherlock Hudson Holmes, of Bakersfield Hall, in the county of -----shire, and of Diogenes Manor, in the county of -----shire, England, was Enbrothered to my own brother, James Antoine Moriarty: Son of Richard Moriarty, merchant, and of Bertha Antoinetta Moriarty, his wife, a Creole, at -----church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church, a copy of which is now in my possession. It is signed by the witnesses to that marriage: the aforementioned Richard Moriarty, Siger Holmes (Sherlock’s father), Mycroft Tiberius Holmes and myself, James Bertram Moriarty (brother of Sherlock’s supposed husband, also named James, who was attacked that terrible night a few months ago) who did not legally witness the marriage, as I was underage at the time, but physically witnessed it nonetheless.”

 

“That, if it is indeed a genuine document, may prove I have been Enbrothered, but it does not prove that the man mentioned therein as my husband is still living.”

 

“He was living three months ago,” returned the lawyer.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“The witness to this document which I have just read out, whose testimony even you, Sir, will scarcely controvert, and who will also testify to your husband’s current existence.”

 

“Produce him—or go to hell.”

 

“I will produce him first, as he is on the spot. Mr. Moriarty, have the goodness to step forward.”

 

The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor’s shoulder. Yes, it was James himself, my intended husband’s apparent brother-in-law. James stepped forward and Sherlock found he could contain himself no longer. He rose, strode with determination towards the young man and struck him to the ground with all his might.

 

“ **I COULD HAVE LET YOU DIE THAT NIGHT, YOU TREACHEROUS DOG!”** James cowered away with a cry of ‘Oh God!’

 

“Master Holmes, contain yourself.” Mr. Brocklehurst implored. “This is a sacred place.”

 

“What have you to say, James? **What have you to say?** ” Sherlock tried to frighten the young man from speaking by his use of his authoritative voice.

 

“Have courage. Speak the truth.” Mr. Briggs asked the terrified young man.

 

“The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?”

 

“He is now living at Bakersfield Hall,” said James, in more articulate tones: “I saw him there last December. I am his brother.”

 

“At Bakersfield Hall!” intervened Anderson, who had remained silent until now. “Impossible! I am an old resident of that house, Sir, and I never heard of a Mr. Moriarty at Bakersfield Hall. Unless you count this disheveled young man cowering here.”

 

I saw a grim smile contort Sherlock’s lips, and he muttered: “No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it; or of him and that name.” He mused, and for ten minutes he held counsel with himself; he formed his resolve, and announced it.

 

“Enough! All shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel. Mr. Brocklehurst, close your book and take off your surplice.” Sherlock continued, hardily and recklessly

 

“Bigamy is an ugly word! I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has outmaneuvered me, or Providence has checked me… perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this moment; and, as my temporary pastor there would tell me, I deserve, no doubt, the sternest judgments of God. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up: what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been Enbrothered, and the gentleman to whom I was married lives. You say you never heard of a Mr. Moriarty at the house up yonder, Anderson; but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept here under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that he is my bastard half-brother; some, my cast-off lover. I now inform you that he is my husband, whom I Enbrothered fifteen years ago: James Moriarty by name; brother of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear.” At this, he turned to James.

 

“Cheer up, Jimmy! Never fear me! I’d almost as soon strike a woman as you.” He then turned back to the rest of us. “James Antoine Moriarty is mad and he came of a mad family; idiots, simpletons and maniacs through three generations. His mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a drunkard, as I found out **after** I had wed the son, for they were silent on family secrets before. James Antoine, like a dutiful child, copied his parent in both points. I have now a charming partner: pure, wise, modest. You can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes. Oh! My experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Anderson, Moriarty, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mr. Moran’s patient. You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This young man,” he continued, looking at me, “knew no more than you, Anderson, of the disgusting secret. He thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt he was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you— **follow**!”

 

Still holding me fast, we left the church; the three gentlemen came after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.

 

“Take it back to the coach-house, Sylvester,” said Sherlock coolly, again, without looking back, “it will not be wanted today.”

 

At our entrance, Mrs. Hudson, Adelmar, Sophie, Sally, Greg, all advanced to meet and greet us, Adelmar happily throwing petals in the air.

 

“To the right-about, **every soul**!” cried the master, “away with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I! They are fifteen years too late! Come. Come all. You can **ALL** meet my husband!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read this before the chapter!
> 
> Remember what I said about dear A.C. Doyle and names? The name James was used by him for not just one brother, but TWO! So in the end, canon has three James Moriartys. My story only contains two. As for his personal and family history, that shall come in the next chapter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is SUPER wordy but also, in my honest opinion, the best of the chapters in terms of plot. Catalysts always are. Threshold of revelation.  
> EDIT: I fixed a mistake I made regarding the date of Adelmar's unofficial adoption by Sherlock.

As I was being pulled by Master Homes, his countenance determined and stony, towards the answers that had evaded me throughout the months I had stayed within Bakersfield Hall, being closely followed by Mr. Moriarty (the younger, I should, sadly, amend), his solicitor, (Mr. Briggs) and Lestrade (who appeared embarrassed, curiously enough), I was conflicted regarding how I should feel at that moment: whether angry or relieved. There was even a shameful sense of excitement tinting my diverging emotions. I could not decide towards which I was leaning towards further. Was it even justifiable anger I was feeling? Had it all been done maliciously, with a true intent to hurt me and humiliate me? I could not believe it of Master Holmes, no. It was simply a matter of him loving someone far too much, and yet not trusting them enough; not trusting me enough to accept the limitations of his life: his choices and those which were imposed upon him by others. And there was relief, as well; washing over me, much like the light from the hallway windows, which broke through the gloom that permanently permeated throughout the galleries, even during happy days such as this one; its own happiness only broken no more than half of an hour ago. The slanted shafts of light breaking through the gloom, made a pattern; a pattern burning into the warm carpeting in the hallways, the colours slightly faded like marbled squares. And as I was being led towards a room I dreaded, a room which held secrets Master Holmes had worked so hard in keeping from me- either for my own sake or his; or both- I felt I should be feeling as if running towards salvation, not doom. And yet I felt no levity; nor joy. Only dizziness.

Light. Darkness. Light. Darkness. I was being alternatingly blinded by bright and dazzling light and suffocated by the plunge into terrifying darkness; each only lasting no more than a fragment of a second.

“Lilacs…” I exclaimed, as we passed by a magnificent vase arranged by Mrs. Hudson. It was disconcerting and felt wrong to suddenly have that dear old woman in my mind, and could only bring myself to wonder how she had managed to find them so early in the spring. I was overcome with sudden sadness at the thought of how much trouble she must have gone to in order to procure them, as I seemed to remember they were present throughout all of Bakersfield Hall’s passages.

As we neared our destination, Master Holmes bellowed, without any kind of salutation towards his hired jailor:

"How is your patient today, Mr. Moran?" was the only greeting Master Holmes offered the surprised man.

"Aaah…" the man I mistakenly dreaded and feared to be the perpetrator of the sinister goings on, which nearly took Master Holmes' life all those months ago, seemed flustered and perplexed as we barged through the door, duly passing him and by the briskness of our step, indicating to him that Master Holmes expected no retort. The door he was apparently guarding as inconspicuously as possible, which led into the room found on the third floor corridor; the room within the tower belonging to the former battlements.

"He's fine, Sir. I was just about to bring him his lunch." He finally answered, as he saw the party making their way towards the back of the room, running his eyes from one stranger to the next, as we all approached the door shielded by the heavy tapestry, which was pulled violently by Master Holmes, disturbing the decades' worth of dust. I suppose he thought none of these arrangements mattered anymore, and so felt no need to be gentle with the cloaks he had used to drape over and secure his secrets and, with them, his own peace of mind.

And yet there was no door; not in any real sense; just a wooden panel with a small and very deliberately made circle, which I had failed to notice during my last visit. Master Holmes pulled from his pocket a round, metallic object which appeared to look like a very intricate cart's wheel. It had a small handle made of unembellished ivory which attached on one end to the center of the sturdy but beautiful ornamentation running within the wheel’s interior. The pattern aligned perfectly with the small, round indentation within the wooden panel, and when he turned it to the right, there was a great noise of unlocking mechanisms. I had this strange feeling of curiosity regarding the mechanism itself, thinking of it as being operated by 'such a small thing… hiding something so earthshattering.'

Master Holmes pulled the 'door' aside and stepped forward, still holding my hand as we climbed a stone spiral staircase towards maniacal laughter, unintelligible moaning and screamed words, all of them completely disparate and out of context. The cold and hard stone, very sturdy under our feet, seemed to fit with the frosty atmosphere of the staircase.

When we reached the door and Master Holmes put his hand on the handle, Moran warned:

"Take care, Sir! He is as well as can be hoped but no better than usual." He shouted from bellow us, following behind the rest of our companions.

"It will only be a few horror filed moments, Moran, and then they will all take their leave."

Mr. Moran didn't feel comfortable with the situation but climbed ahead of us with the utmost care, fearing someone falling. He opened the final door and tentatively let us in slowly, one by one, allowing me to finally lay my eyes upon my nighttime tormentor. He was a body of purple flesh, bruises self-inflicted by his constant bashing of his body against the wall; sometimes bashing, sometimes trying to climb with his gnarled fingernails. There were three 'windows', though they were no more than ancient archers’ vantage points, which were used for their bows. They provided very little light.

"Back, all of you!" shouted Master Holmes. "He may not have a visible weapon on his person as last time, but I will not take that chance." His eyes flitted towards me as he shielded me with his outstretched arm, which had been holding my hand as we cut a path on our way here.

"No one ever knows what he might be hiding." Confirmed Moran. The creature made as if to lunge.

"BACK, you creature! You SPIDER!" Bellowed Master Holmes, at the seemingly confused looking young man. Slight and willowy, he had a pathetic look on his face that inspired heart wrenching pity, a visage he couldn't keep on his face without having it turn into a horrid and mocking smile; a mask that kept being applied, falling off and, again, reapplied. The hair on his head was a tangled mess, his face unshaven for fear he would grab the implement used for the task and do a mischief, leaving his beard ragged and haphazardly cut, as if done quickly and in fear. He was dressed in a ragged nightshirt, torn by him, no doubt, in places that allowed glimpses to his uncovered genitalia.

"You wound me." It finally spoke, as if gathering all its power to sound sane and collected, though his voice was ragged from overuse. "You wound me, dead husband, dear husband, dead husband. Have you come to inspect the beast in his cage? Are the walls bare enough? Is my confinement complete enough? Would you deny me still?... James!” he exclaimed, turning towards his brother, as if finally noticing him “Oh, dear brother. Have you come to rescue me? It was naughty of me to react the way I did… when… when?… Dear brother. You. You I do not know," he pointed at the solicitor. "You… you I have heard of; his Pearl, his Prize and amulet. My replacement." The last he said with such unrestrained hatred, through clenched teeth, as if voiced by a demon inhabiting his body.

"Don't you DARE talk to him if you wish to live another day!" silently threatened Master Holmes, but the creature was undeterred, walking slowly back and forth in front of us from one side of the room to the other, appearing like a cornered animal.

"Ask me. Ask me, dear boy." He said to me. "You have waited long enough, though I know you are already aware of the answer, for I have revealed it to you, through the wall, on our chance meeting. Ask me. Ask me, you poor wretched simpleton." I was beyond fear at this point, fed by Master Holmes' courage, I supposed. I pulled myself to my full height, though I was a head taller than him because of his natural stoop in his diseased state.

"Who knew?" I asked, though he answered before I even uttered the second word.

"Everyone!"

"Mrs… Mrs. Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade?"

"Everyone."

"Molly?"

"Everyone." He whispered every time, as he did before, his throat hoarse from shouting. He then laughed maniacally as I turned back; he spat on the ground, before leaping at my retreating form, though I was not aware of it. Instead, he caught Master Holmes and bit his cheek, breaking the skin slightly but not seriously enough to leave a permanent mark and blemish. I was aghast.

"Now you see what it is that I am shackled to. What it was I tried to… Now, leave this place. Leave me with my 'Dear husband'."

We all left solemnly, as we heard Master Holmes giving instructions to the subdued Moran.

I did not pay much heed to the conversation between Mr. Moriarty and Mr. Briggs until I found myself outside my room and Mr. Moriarty was further ahead, leaving Mr. Briggs to convey some information to me.

"… and so, you see, my client had no other choice but to… forgive me, are you quite alright, Sir?"

"I'm sorry, I was not… What was it you were saying?"

“Well, as I was saying. You, Sir,” said he, “are cleared from all blame. Your uncle will be glad to hear it, if, indeed, he should be still living, when Mr. Moriarty returns to Madeira.”

“My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?”

“Mr. Moriarty does. Mr. John Watson of Madeira has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years. When your uncle received your letter," The letter! I had quite forgotten I had sent it during the lull between Master Holmes' declaration and the day of our Enbrotherment. I had hoped against hope it might reach him though I did not think it likely for him to still be alive. "the same letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and Master Holmes, Mr. Moriarty, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Watson mentioned the intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Holmes. Mr. Moriarty, astonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease, its rapid decline, and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Moriarty to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. I used all my resources, and am thankful I was not too late; as you, doubtless, must also be. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Moriarty back; but as it is, I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or, most likely, of Mr. Watson.” He then turned back to Mr. Moriarty and asked “Have we anything else to stay for?” he inquired of Mr. Moriarty.

“No, no—let us be gone,” was the anxious reply; and without waiting to take leave of Master Holmes, they made their exit at the hall door. Mr. Brocklehurst I heard go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which I had now withdrawn. His grief for me was evident enough and I was sure to receive a letter condoling with me at this tragic turn of events. But now, he could not find the words to console me and did wisely in leaving me, for I was far too despondent to take solace in his kind words.

Lestrade approached me, silently. I turned to him and without any preamble, I said:

“You tried to warn me, did you not? That morning, when you approached me in the garden. You were too scared of hurting Master Holmes and, by doing so, incurring his wrath, and so you kept this from me. You only managed to mumble a few unintelligible mutterings. It is why you were dismissed from attending dinner with us on the day that I returned from Gateshead Hall. You had quarreled with Master Holmes, and so did Mrs. Hudson, when you dressed him that evening, just before dinner. You both advised him to do nothing further and he made sure you knew where your loyalties lay and how much he had suffered because of the man you yourself held so high in your esteem; his own brother.”

“Yes. Yes, to my utmost shame, I did. I kept his secrets for him and so did Molly and Mrs. Hudson. I was the only one who knew of… um, James, by design. The other two had learned of it by accident but were persuaded to keep it to themselves; Mrs. Hudson by her familial loyalty to the Holmes name, and Molly by her attachment to Master Holmes.”

“Thank you. It may be regarded as too late but I still find a confession of one’s weaknesses to hold value, and I still see you as my friends.”

Lestrade had nothing further to say, nodded curtly, and made his way back to assist Master Holmes.

The house cleared and returned to its quiet and desolate former self. I shut myself in, fastened the bolt so that none might intrude, and proceeded- not to weep, nor to mourn, for I was yet far too calm for that, but- mechanically to take off my wedding attire, and replace it with the somber clothing I had worn yesterday, as I thought at that point, for the last time. I then sat down. I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I thought. For up till now, this day, I had only heard, seen, moved- followed up and down where I was led or dragged- watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure and even spoke once or twice. Now, though. Now I thought.

Adelmar had, by some chance, avoided all his other caregivers and had come to knock at my door just a short hour after I had ensconced myself in my chamber. I could not bring myself to open the door nor give him any reassurances through it; for I was not yet settled in my mind as to my future course of action and I did not wish to placate the poor soul with lies. After he left, there were no other intrusions, which I found odd but put it down to the members of the house being respectful enough to leave me be.

In the intervening hours, I spent my time, with no better way of putting it, going around in circles: I made plans, which I then changed again and again until they were unrecognizable to their origin. I made lists; hundreds of them, some completely nonsensical. Torn to shreds, thrown in the fire. Some I tried to rescue without there being any merit to them at all. Some I let burn without a second thought, though they would have been quite useful. I burned my hand twice and had to calm the skin in the cold water basin. I paced. I cursed him. Both of them. I cursed myself. I felt pity; again, for both of them. I pitied myself. I went back and forth between anger and pity. I packed my things time and time again, rearranging everything without finding satisfaction in my organization.

After a night spent in sleepless thought and the day which followed half awake, I ventured out of my room five hours after the sun had set, hoping not to be noticed by anyone as I made my way to the kitchens in hopes of finding sustenance without having to confront any member of the household. It was dark; the hallway had no burning candles, so I made my way slowly out of my room. I bumped the left side of my body with a great chair which had been propped just outside my door, its occupant was startled awake and rose quickly to help me steady myself. I appeared to be of a weaker state and constitution than I had imagined. It was Master Holmes who seemed despondent and brought so low by his dejection, his face was almost unrecognizable. It was painful for me to watch this man, a paragon of self-confidence and pride, completely out of his characteristic smugness and self-assurance.

I leaned against his side and let him lead me to wherever it was he wished to seclude us. We found ourselves in his library, with cold sandwiches and tea waiting for us, no doubt arranged by him ahead of time. The tea was warm, and yet Sally was nowhere to be found, so I could only assume Master Holmes knew at which point I would make my way out of my room, driven out by my hunger; he arranged for this to wait for us and dismissed Sally no more than a quarter of an hour ago. And yet, he still sat outside my room. He did not trust his own instincts on the matter. A man, who always knows, has been reduced to guessing just like any other mortal.

The house was silent; everyone sent away at his request so as not to be intruded upon. He sat me down on the great chair I had occupied so many months ago, when the name Holmes was unknown to me yet, and all I knew of Bakersfield Hall resided in the visage of a sweet lady, offering me tea out of her own, slightly shaking, hands.

“I have thought about this for a very long time during your self-confinement; how I would broach the subject of my betrayal; the one which was perpetrated on me, and the one I perpetrated upon you.” I was attentive and did not avert my gaze in order to assure him he had my complete attention. He did not speak for some time and just gazed at me. I wondered whether he was trying to memorize my face in case he would not see it again. Perhaps he was simply gathering his thoughts.

“I would like you to imagine a young man. This is me, of course. I am standing looking at Spanish Town from a darkened room through a window perched very high above the ground. I am holding a pistol and contemplating which course of action would be more advantageous: The immediacy and absolute certainty of death which a bullet would provide me when the barrel is pressed against my temple, along with the shame of having my death be known to all as a matter of choice, or the uncertainty of a possibly crippling but nonfatal approach which a jump would provide me, while knowing that, if successful, could easily be claimed as an unfortunate accident, bringing no shame upon myself nor family. It is 1837. I am 23 years of age, while you are a boy no older than 8. I spend my life between England, where I study, and Spanish Town, where my “beloved” and “loving” husband is. I drink. I use laudanum. I experiment with a chemical derivative of the Coca plant. I even whore a handful of times, just to feel another person’s warm skin.” I grimaced at this, feeling shame I could not explain. He smiles a bitter smile at my reaction. “Spanish Town could have provided me with enough warm beds to alleviate my childish loneliness, if I had wished it. I am 23 years of age and this is my life. I snap in disgust from my pathetic and self-pitying reverie and turn back from the window, to the bed on which lies my husband and his current male companion for that evening, of which he regularly availed himself whenever I denied him my affection, which was almost nightly. I fire at the ceiling, startling the young man while my husband just opens his eyes and smiles. As the faceless, nameless young colt bolts out of the room, I fire at the pillow by James’ head, where his night’s companion had just laid his head, but get no reaction from him besides a quick blink. He is still smiling. He is far gone into madness at this point, with several violent attacks committed, which I had to have had hushed up. And yet he is capable still to hide it well enough in mixed company. Over the next few days I set about convincing him to leave with me to England, and in so doing, he unknowingly agrees to have himself shut up forever within this house.

“I would like for you to see me as a young man of 18 years of age. You are but a mere child of three, John. I am still young, still… for lack of a better word, innocent. My father, Siger, has two sons. Only one can inherit, the other, join the clergy, as have many other second and third sons done before him. The predicament can easily be solved by an advantageous marriage. My father has a business partner, Richard Moriarty, with an elder son whom he wishes to be settled. He is 21 and of a startling beauty and handsomeness, tempered by a viciously keen intellect. He brings with him a large estate which would settle any financial worry my father could ever have regarding my future. I am called by my father from England and told to prepare for marriage. I leave, accompanied only by my friend, Sebastian Wilkes, now also my banker, whom I have mentioned to you on a few prior occasions. I am happy and hopeful. I am… Innocently hopeful, and there’s that damnable word again, my d… John. I arrive at Port Royal and make my way, enthusiastically, to Spanish Town. I am not allowed to meet my husband-to-be, nor any of his family, besides his father and brother. Curious, is it not? Considering I have been told his mother is still living and he has two sisters and another brother, all living in Jamaica. However, when I do finally meet James, I am enthralled. It’s his eyes. They pierce through me, the same way I pierce through everyone else. I have found someone of my own kind. You can not imagine what that feels like, John. For someone like me, who has felt throughout his life that he has no equals, except perhaps a brother who exists in theory. Mycroft was there, as you know. Sebastian is overjoyed for me but goes back home soon after my wedding; his own matters needing his attention back in England.

“After a blissful wedding night, the euphoria of matrimony soon dissipates as a fog does when confronted with a strong gust of cold wind. James is malicious from the very beginning, not bothering to ease me to his caprices and violent character. He makes no attempt to hide it nor apologizes at any stage. I have to admit to begrudgingly feel respect for him, never asking for forgiveness when it comes to his transgressions towards me. This is the first breaking point. We play with words. We destroy each other viciously while those around us believe us to be exchanging pleasantries. He leaves me riddles as part of our “love games”. They become bloodier and bloodier, culminating with me finding the head of our Negro manservant with a pendant dangling from his mouth, the hook piercing his tongue, which is grotesquely hanging out of his head.

“I leave him. It is 1833 and I am 19, while you are still a child of four and fending off against your older cousin. I return to England after meeting the rest of the Moriarty… offspring, who have inherited all of their birth-giver’s “virtues”. There is Bertha Antoinetta, James’ mother, by birth a Creole, but also a harlot, a drunkard and a violent killer, and quite the work of art, whose copy, my husband, I dearly paid for its acquisition and procurement; the deal struck by my father and brother. She was put away in the same manner I had her son put away.  
James’ brother, Mason, who is an absolute simpleton, with a mind developed no further than the mind of a child aged six.  
There is also Hannah, insane and malicious but without inheriting her mother’s intelligence, as James has.  
And finally, there is Sarah, a disease-ridden harlot and drunkard. They were all like mirrors in a room, oddly angled and refracting light originating from a single point; their mother. All of them retain some part, some hue of the light she emits, but James absorbed all of them; the focal point; the masterpiece.

“It is 1835 and I am 21 years of age, while you are a boy of six, being falsely blamed for the death of small critters about the grounds of Gateshead Hall. I have met Lestrade. I help him in a case of child murders. I still abuse laudanum and will continue to do so for some time. I distract myself as best I can. I breakdown yet again. I go back to try and see if there is anything to salvage of the life I left in Jamaica. It takes me close to two years to come to the realization that there is nothing to salvage of the life I had abandoned at 19, because there was nothing there to begin with but misguided lust and enforced obligation. Both my father and brother are dead at this point, making my marriage an even greater insult in its superfluousness. I am 23 again and I am locking my husband, here, in the tower, never to release him. I help the local authorities with the Deverell Twins case. Once that is finished, I make my way through the continent. There is Irene whom I meet at the age of 24, and whom I leave just short of two years afterwards. Her story you already know. There’s Victor: Italian and hot blooded, whom I meet 6 months after leaving Irene, at the age of 27. We know passion but I find his nature contains too much in spitefulness to allow me to forget the man I left here in England to rot, so I leave him and meet an Austrian: Clara; a woman who loves and is loved by both men and women, whom I meet at 29, close to 8 months after I leave Victor. She i indolent, and far too near my own nature in its emotional detachment for us to make any kind of sense together. After this wanton abandon, I realize I can not live any further in such a manner, and at the age of 31, I make my way back to England. I spend no more than a few days at a time here at Bakersfield Hall, and only when it is impossible to avoid doing so. Once, when I am truly hard pressed, I arrive here at dusk and leave before the sun has touched the horizon again. A few years pass of these sporadic visitations and I get contacted by Irene to take on the burden of raising her unfortunate child, just under two years ago, when I am 33 and the child is eight. I make all the arrangements from London for the poor creature to come here securely with his nursemaid. I visit the neighbourhood again, with neither the intention to visit this accursed house, nor to step upon its malignant ground. I pass by the road abutting the estate, Pilot by my side. And then… there was you, John. I was furious. I almost struck at you for your stupidity, not realizing you were simply fogbound and startled. We were both blinded: You, by the haze and your understandable fear; me… by my rekindled rage at considering my life, upon my nearness to its most blemished canker. I still think you bewitched my horse with your little-people ways, Hauflin; just as surely as you bewitched me.

“I made my way here at once, not caring three straws about any broken engagements and disappointed friends and acquaintances. You must have noticed how little you saw of me those first few weeks. I, however, saw you. I saw you with Adelmar in the library. I saw you taking tea with Mrs. Hudson, or sharing some trivial matter with Lestrade. I watched you in the closeness of these halls and the great expanses of its grounds, and made a gargantuan effort to come in contact with you as little as possible, our meetings on the staircase no mere chance, but rather my steely resolve breaking and my mind drawing towards you more and more. The night of the fire… I was startled out of my wits with worry. My curse, which lay groaning on a stony floor above us, writhing as an animal, struck at me when he could have so easily have struck at you. The violin was a good remedy but not a solution. To tame his wild spirit and remind him of his almost non-existent humanity. When you chased him through the house, when you confronted me with my cowardice at the door, looking away as if ashamed to tell me what was distressing you so thoroughly, I felt a sudden sense of shame and repugnance I could not put into words. I was so humbled by a mere boy, who cared so much for my safety he chased a murderous beast through darkened hallways, no thought considered for his own safety. I knew then, that I could not rest until I had your affection, and to have you declare said affection openly. I set about the intrigue with Miss Riley. A shameful episode but one I can not feel excessively distressed about when considering HER discomfort; only yours.

“Now, I am asking you to consider whether I was right in wishing to finally find happiness with a soul I desired: a man who was never allowed to be a boy. Kindness personified; wit and sensibility; easily inclined to loving even the most wretched and unworthy, myself the proof of that disposition in character. I ask you to be my husband and yet no husband. I ask you to either wait for a madman to commit a mischief upon himself in his insanity, thus rid me of my legal obligation to him, or to accept we could never be that which we hoped to be until a day and a half ago, before truth had made things plain to you and the world. We have come to this: you and I, sitting in a dark and dusty library, where I have told you a story no one single person in this world knows the fullest extent of. And yet you say nothing; have said nothing.”

“I wanted to be told all there is to tell. I wanted to know all there was to know that I did not already know.”

“And? What is your judgment on this wretched creature? Will you leave him with his inbred obligation, lying shackled above his head? Could you not love me still, Johnny?”

“Please allow me to think. I have not yet grasped all that has been revealed to me and have been merely listening to your tale.” I considered the matter in silence. I considered how close I had come to be this man’s husband and how far from being his husband I would have been, even if the ceremony had not been interrupted. How I had wished for my letter to have never gotten into the hands of my uncle and so become the catalyst to all that has befallen me. I considered those who came into his life before me, who felt affection towards this man before my own regard for him had ever existed. All three were loved dearly, at least for a time, but were discarded so easily. How fast they had gained his contempt. Could I allow myself to risk losing him in the same way? Could I live with the knowledge I am seen as contemptible in his eyes? Easily put aside? And should a contract of Enbrotherment really be all that holds me to him, were we to have legally married? Moreover, could I put aside my own inclinations to chastity and purity which have been rooted in my mind since infancy? Could I share my life with someone I am not bound to in the eyes of God? For him, I could. Heaven help me, I could live with all the world’s scorn. But could I live with his? Could I join the string of men and women he has left in his wake? That I could not live with. I could not be another Clara, or Victor or even Irene.

“I can not be what you wish me to be, Master. I can not be your… whore.” I whispered the last.

“Why must you think in such terms? Why would anyone?”

“Master Holmes. You are offering me the only thing I want, if I give up the only thing I treasure.”

“Am I NOT your treasure?”

“You are not MY treasure.” At this he rose quickly from his chair and shouted:

“I am NOT HIS TREASURE!” He then made a lunge for my throat and held it possessively but without true determination to cause mischief. “Such a slender thing.” He spoke gently. “I could but wrap a single hand and break this body that rejects me. To take the soul inhabited within, the one that lurks behind those blue eyes and screams for my affection. The same soul that had once promised me to stand naked in the halls of the dead as equals in our love. Do not deny me, John!” His eyes welled with unshed tears. “But… but what good would that do? I could build no cabinet to hold that light which is trapped behind this fragile casing. There is no art this side of Jerusalem that could teach me how to hold onto this spirit after its cage has been put aside, destroyed and abandoned. I… I…” He struggled to say further.

“What is it, Master?”

“Can I… could I taste your skin? Would you allow me to pass my lips along your inner thigh? To lay my hands upon your stomach, fingers spread between your delicate ribs? Would you allow me to rest in the crook of your neck, your chin above my head, as I lay on top of you? To smell your skin and hear the hiss my hands make as they pass over your chest delicately, the texture dry, my breath ghosting over you. You are a violin; a fine violin, warm and sturdy wood curved by a master craftsman to vibrate at the mere touch of the bow; the sound a complete surprise for all who hear it for the first time.” I was awestruck. He was making no sense, as if his mind had snapped. Or perhaps I was too inexperienced to understand the sudden shift in his monologue, from the spiritual to the physical. I was scandalized by his statements but touched nonetheless. I was drawn towards the images he was describing and felt a rush pooling at my lower stomach and groin, which were pressed flush against his own body, his hands still delicately around my neck. I then realized what it was he was doing. What he was trying to arouse and draw from me; the temptation too great for someone as young and inexperienced as I was, I allowed him to continue and to press against me; to satisfy the both of us. My resolve clearly evident in my eyes and my actions, his hands dropped from my neck and onto my waist, backing me towards the chair he had pulled me out of when grabbing at me in his rage. He dropped us in a most awkward angle, with him looking down into my eyes from above me, my legs stretched forward with his own resting on top of them at first, but slowly managing to be encircled by my own legs. His breathing sped as he started to thrust himself towards me; against me. The legs of the chair making a scraping noise upon the floor, each time he pushed. My heart’s beating was elevated and my own breath caught rather than accelerated. He bent down in an attempt to claim my lips but I quickly turned away, preferring to have his lips ghost over my neck. I felt I couldn’t give him that. Not anymore. His hands were no longer on my waist but rose up and now rested just slightly beneath the crooks under my arms, his own arms pressed tightly against the sides of my body, his elbows digging into the chair. He kept thrusting, again and again. Towards what goal, I did not know. I felt a coil of warmth building within my lower stomach, the skin of my nether region hardened, as it always does when concentrating on carnal desire. The warmth built and built; for him as well, no doubt. He kept his lips to my neck, with my arms encircling him: one hand at the nape of his neck, the other holding onto his back. After a time I did not measure, he stopped. He remained on top of me, then awkwardly drew himself off of me and away, turned his back to me and stood for a length of time without speaking. Without turning, he finally said, his voice as one of a broken man:

“John, do not leave me. I am at rock bottom. I will do anything to keep you.” A thought struck me at this moment. It thundered and bore its way violently into my mind. It was said somewhere else but stuck with me; originating from a book perhaps. It said ‘We all want to be good and we all want to prosper. God grant you never have to choose!’ How correct and appropriate. I can either be good and stick to what is left of my God fearing innocence and by doing so, lose him, or I can prosper with this man for as long as he will have me, as others have done, before being cast off in contempt by him.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” And with that, I left for my room, locked the door behind me, threw what I could find strewn about, with no thought to practicality or to what provisions I would actually need when on the road. I shut my case and bound it, and as the first light of dawn broke through the windows, I climbed out of my room. I did not realize then what inconvenience a door locked from within can be, and the grievous worry it would inflict upon Master Holmes. I was told, at a much later time, that he had dislodged his shoulder in his attempt to force the door open, not patient enough to wait for the hinges to be removed. He thought that I had perhaps done what he had failed to do at 23 years of age, when he was looking out of a tall window, onto Spanish Town. I carefully made my way down and ran with a single thought to keep my determination: We all want to be good and we all want to prosper. God grant you NEVER have to choose!

And, thus, I ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make allusions to MANY things. Ask about what you find interesting.  
> EDIT: I would like to make it clear that there was absolutely NO penetrative sex whatsoever, if it wasn't already clear. In fact, there wasn't even an orgasm, which I thought suited their situation very well, considering the nature of their unfortunate relationship.


End file.
